


Softly Laying on the Ground

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 900-1200ish A.D., Alternate Universe - Middle Ages, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Stiles, Everybody is a Werewolf or Human, Good Peter, Hermaphrodites, M/M, Mates, Miscarriage, Mpreg, POV Alternating, Pack Dynamics, Single Parent Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Trust Issues, Vague historical setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4974244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles agreed to a second alliance with the wolves in the hopes of securing his people's future. Even if it meant repeating his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**STILES**

                Propriety dictated that the Chief meet the Alpha first, in private, in some neutral meeting place.

                His father told him to expect his absence for several hours. There was much to discuss, and several hours was still too little time to develop a comprehensive impression of another person.

                Pending his father’s approval or denial, the next meeting would be held at the village so that the betrothed could meet one another. Only immediate family participated, although Stiles had heard that the Hale Alpha had no parents anymore and no remaining family left in the Beacon Hills territory save for an uncle.

                There were many stories about what happened to the family.

                Stiles found himself pacing in the hut that he shared with his father, and when that grew tiresome, he scooped up Claud from his bundle of blankets and went looking for Scott.

                The healer’s hut was located in the middle of the village where it would be most accessible to any injured party. He found his friend there, assisting his mother as she treated one of the villagers. A young boy who lived not far down the lane. It was a common feat for his mother to scream at him about climbing the trees that surrounded the village. Rather impossible to ignore.

                It looked like one of his climbing adventures had finally caught up with him, a long gash covering his shin. The boy was undoubtedly more worried about the dressing down he would receive from his mother when he went home. The woman had a powerful set of lungs.

                Scott heard his footfalls and looked over towards the doorway. He smiled. “Hey, buddy.”

                “Go ahead, boys. I am almost done here anyway.”

                Melissa had always called him and Scott “boys,” and Stiles imagined that she always would, no matter how old they grew. She gave Stiles a smile with sweetness matching her son’s and turned back towards the child she was bandaging.   

                Scott wetted his hands from a pitcher near the door and scrubbed them with a grayish chunk of lye. He would not touch anyone until he had scrubbed away the fluids and sweat and oils from the ones he tended. As a healer’s son, he had learned the value of proper hygiene in preventing sickness and disease. Cleanliness made a world of difference.

                The villagers did not bathe in the river, although many swam during the hotter months. Every hut had a collection of mismatched buckets and basins and pots for fresh water. Similar vessels were used for waste, which was dumped in the forest to be consumed and broken down by mysterious lower life forms. Keeping the river uncontaminated was essential for the village’s survival.  

                It was too late in the day for people to be collecting water, so they had the bank to themselves.              

                Once they settled down onto the soft slant of dirt leading to the water, Scott grinned and wiggled his fingers in a squirming, grasping motion towards Claud. Stiles snorted good-naturedly and deposited the infant into his best friend’s arms.

                Scott moved his mouth like a fish and crossed his eyes, which never failed to make the baby giggle and blow spit bubbles in return. The children of the village adored Scott, and all of the babies _loved_ him, Stiles’ son not excluded. Perhaps it was because Scott was one of the first faces the newborns saw, as he assisted his mother with all of the village’s deliveries, and they recognized him. In greater likelihood, they understood on an instinctual and emotional level that the crooked-jawed man before them had a kind smile and a loving soul.

                He was to be trusted.

                Stiles had known Scott since their own births and knew this to be true. Aside from his own father and Melissa, he had never met a better person than his dear friend. Scott was the one who would look after his child if something happened to him.

                “How is my little angel today?” Scott leaned down and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead, smoothing down Claud’s fine fluff of hair afterwards. Golden-brown, just like his father’s.

                Stiles thought of it as nature’s compromise. His boy inherited his father’s hair and unblemished skin but took after himself in his upturned nose and his eyes. The latter were a honeyed color, resembling the ale that the adults drank  during celebrations. Yes, he considered his son very handsome. But Claud’s father had been beautiful, too.  

                “Your Uncle Scott loves you,” the man cooed, rocking the infant in his cradled arms. Claud would be fast asleep in minutes. Scott maintained his rhythm and looked up at him. “How long has your father been gone?”

                “Since this morning. He said he would be home before nightfall.” Stiles stared at the river, watching a leaf being carried away with the current, powerless but to let some greater force decide its course. The aptness of the comparison was sour on his tongue, and he grimaced.

                “It was just basic negotiations, right?”

                “Yes, but he wants to be sure about him before he arranges a visit,” Stiles replied quietly. He looked down at his son, sleeping softly, and felt a warmth inflate his chest.

                No matter what he endured—the pain, the betrayal, the fear—it was all worth it. Just to see his baby peaceful and know that he was loved deeply.

                Scott left the silence for a few moments before saying, “I hope your father does not approve. I know that is selfish of me, but it is my truth.”

                “I do not want to leave you either, Scotty…Not again.” Stiles clapped him on the shoulder softly, so as not to jostle Claud. “But we need this to work. Who knows when another pack will reach out to us? Who knows what is coming? Raiders or unfriendly wolves or something worse?”

                “I know.” Scott’s voice was calm. His entire presence was calm. He was the one who always knew how to tranquilize Stiles when he flew into a rage or a panic. But he did not lie; he did not pretend that everything would always work out for the better.

                Stiles had enough first-hand experience to know that it often did not.

* * *

                He and Scott remained at the riverbank until supper time. They talked a little more, about the banalities of the village. Who was marrying whom, when neighbors were going to have their first child, funny or frustrating stories about people they had come across during their work.

                Scott and his mother were the only healers in their village, and even though their numbers barely scraped two hundred, they were kept busy. Meanwhile, Stiles was a hunter and gatherer, along with a group of other villagers who provided the food for the people. It was during his work that he had become familiar with Scott’s soon-to-be wife, Kira, and had introduced them. She had a similar sweetness and compassion that Stiles believed would mesh well with Scott’s own nature.

                His friend was to be married at the wake of autumn, the season rumored to inspire long and joyful marriages. If his father accepted Alpha Hale, then Stiles would be sentenced to another summer wedding. The season of fertility. Life was a cruel and unbearable thing sometimes.

                They allowed Claud to play in the water with Stiles holding him securely at the interface between bank and river, where there was no current but a gentle slosh of water. He let his son’s soft, little feet dangle just over the surface so that he could kick and splash, shrieking delightedly.

                He wrapped his boy back into his thin blanket, enough to keep any chill from a breeze out, and they walked back to the village. Scott offered him a place at his table for supper, but Stiles declined. He imagined that his father would be back now, since the world had begun to dim with the setting sun.

                He was right. He could see the light of a burning candle through the front window. Their hut was located next door to Melissa’s for the same matter of convenience of having the Chief reachable at all times. Their hut looked like every other because his father would not waste the resources for useless embellishments. His father made the decision out of practicality, but it also proved strategic when wandering outsiders intended to cause trouble.

                People respected him, and every two years at the village meeting, they re-elected him as their Chief. He cared about what mattered: keeping them safe, enacting justice. The Chiefship would not automatically be passed to him when his father stepped down, and for that, he was grateful.

                 He stepped through the door of their hut, nudging it shut with his knee so he would not disturb the bundle in his arms. Stiles had fed the boy an hour ago down at the river; there was little he or Scott could do in front of one another anymore that would create embarrassment. Still, Claud would wake from his nap in a few hours, needing to suckle again.

                His father held out his arms silently, and Stiles passed the unconscious infant seamlessly so that his grandfather could put him to bed. The Chief must have gotten home somewhat earlier than himself because supper was already cooking in a pot over the fire.

                That morning and afternoon, Stiles had picked many roots and berries, had caught a rabbit in every one of his snares. From the scent, he imagined that his father had made a stew. He stirred the mixture with a spoon and carefully dished two portions into wooden bowls.

                His father joined him at the table soon after, weariness from the day making the creases of his weathered face more dramatic.

                “How was your meeting with Alpha Hale?” Stiles had only been able to restrain himself for three spoonfuls of stew, but his father was used to such impatience and curiosity.

                “Productive. He seems like a reasonable man, invested in his people. He believes in the alliance, that the wolves and humans should not live in isolation but integrate and cooperate. We can strengthen one another.”

                Stiles’ spoon paused in midair, his brows furrowed in surprise. “Integrate?” The last pack their village had been affiliated with had no such interest. Their relationship had been viewed by the wolves as a simple barter; they supplied one thing in exchange for another. No more, no less.

                His father nodded knowingly, and Stiles could see a spark of hope in his eyes. “If all goes well, their pack could integrate into the village by next summer. Of course, I would need to hold a forum to discuss even the possibility with our villagers, and he would need to do the same with his pack.”

                “It sounds as if that possibility is resting upon a lot of uncertain outcomes.”

                His father rubbed over his lined forehead. “I know, and I do not want to get ahead of myself. I have arranged the visit for two days’ time.”

                “That soon?” Stiles’ heart pattered anxiously. He had hoped for more time. “They must live rather close.”

                “Yes. On the other side of the forest. Near the base of the mountains. He has told me that the journey will take less than a day.” At least Stiles would be close to the village if he needed to return. “Alpha Hale and his uncle will be coming. Now, son, I will take your opinion into serious consideration, but…”

                Stiles finished his father’s thought and saw the pain in his parent’s face when the words hit the air. “You think I should accept his hand.”

                The Chief sighed and set down his spoon. “After our last alliance, I can understand your hesitance. You have endured things no person should have to. And now I am asking you to take the same risk, once again. The unfairness of the situation has not escaped me, I promise you.” His father’s hand closed over his own on the table. Both of them had stopped eating.

                “I understand, father. You have a duty to do what is right by our people. An alliance is necessary…and I know that the villagers were wary to even agree to a second one after being deserted.”

                His father’s grip tightened with conviction. “No one blames you for that. You did everything you could, as a father and as a spouse.”

                “Not everything,” Stiles muttered lowly, his hand automatically palming his stomach. He lowered his eyes to the tabletop.

                “I have not made up my mind yet, son. If you sincerely feel that an alliance with this Alpha will not be fruitful, then I will not give my approval.”

                “How can you trust my judgment, father? I feel as if I can barely trust it myself sometimes.”

                “Because when the Alpha’s messenger arrived at the village, you chose to bring him to me. It would have been easy to turn him away, and no one would have questioned you for it, being my son. Even though you were frightened to relive the past, you urged me to meet with Alpha Hale. Because it is the right thing for everyone. That is why I trust you. That is why I am proud of you.”

                Stiles covered his eyes with his hand but squeezed his father’s blindly with his other one.

                “I love you, father.”

                “Like I love you, son.”


	2. Chapter 2

**DEREK**

                They left at sunup and hoped to arrive at the Chief’s village by  early evening, accounting for breaks to eat and drink and replenish themselves. He would certainly need something to give him strength if he was to be only in the company of his uncle all day.     

                Yet, Peter could be amusing and tell interesting stories to pass the time. In the face of strangers, he slipped into an easy charm that won over most. And despite his usual stream of snide comments and acerbic sarcasm, Derek could think of no better companion for such a meeting.

                Peter was his counselor because he was an astute judge of character, after all. The Chief seemed like an honorable and trustworthy man, but Derek could not yet say the same of his son. Peter would help fill any of the holes in his perception. Furthermore, his uncle was his only blood family left. Having Cora accompany him when she lived a continent away with her mate was absurd. Even though his uncle pretended that he cared for nothing, Derek knew that he took his nephew’s interests to heart.  

                They stopped at noon, deep within the forest now, having snagged a squirrel each, and cooked them over a small fire. Contrary to human opinion, they did not eat all of their meat raw like savages.

                They crossed a narrow river late in the afternoon and found a few straggling humans carrying vessels of various shapes and sizes back into the other side of the forest.

                “Villagers,” Derek stated. His uncle nodded in agreement.

                They broke through the trees onto a clearing with a dirt path. On either side of the path were clusters of dwellings. Box bases with roofs that resembled squat cones.

                A young woman strode past them, casting an interested glance at them like the other villagers had, before turning away. It seemed that their visit had been announced. They were expected.

                “Excuse me, miss,” Derek called out to the woman. She spun around, sending her long tendrils of red hair swirling around her waist. She approached them with a woven basket propped against one hip, full of pieces of cloth. “Could you direct us to the Chief’s home?”

                One side of her mouth quirked upwards, and her eyes glittered with intelligence. “Of course, Alpha Hale.” She gave him a slight nod of her head, a sign of respect for a strange leader. Derek was certain that none of the villagers bowed to their Chief. The man had seemed averse to pomp and needless flatteries, which Derek appreciated. For so was he.

                The woman, _Lydia,_ as she had introduced herself, guided them to the front door of a home that looked as ordinary as the others.

                “Thank you, Miss Lydia.” Derek gave her a small bow now, and the woman departed. He knocked once on the wooden door and found it opened almost immediately by the Chief.

                “Alpha Hale, Peter Hale, welcome.” The man moved aside from the door to allow them entrance.

                “We appreciate your hospitality, Chief Stilinski,” he replied. He and his uncle were ushered to a table, already set for four people.

                “You must be hungry after your journey. Allow me to grab my son, and we will start serving.” The Chief disappeared into the only other room of the dwelling, separated from the current one by half-walls and a heavy piece of fabric that served as a door.

                Moments later, the human reemerged with a young man in tow. The resemblance was not striking, and Derek imagined that the Chief’s son took after his mother. He was very beautiful as he smoothed down the front of his linen shirt. One with cord that twisted and weaved halfway down to pull it closed.

                The Chief had mentioned that his son was a father himself. In fact, it was the very first thing the man had said to him during their initial meeting. It would have been improper to ask the whereabouts of his son’s estranged spouse. Regardless of the reason for divorce, Derek felt for the Chief’s son. So young, separated from his partner and trying to care for a child.

                Perhaps the Chief’s son had just finished nursing his infant before he entered the front room. The thought made Derek uncomfortably warm, and he shifted in his seat, wiping the sweat from his palms. He saw his uncle’s mouth curl slyly in his peripheral vision.

                Once the Chief approached the table, he and Peter stood, and the three of them sat down together while the son fetched the food. Roasted venison with wild mushrooms and greens of which Derek was unfamiliar. He admitted, his diet was mostly carnivorous.

                When Stiles bent to give him his portion, their eyes touched for a moment before the young man tore his gaze away. He supplied a polite but compulsory “you are welcome” when Derek thanked him.

                Once they were seated, Derek stated, “You and your son are very gracious to share your table with us.” _Especially since neither one of you has made any indication whether my proposal has been accepted._ Derek was not sure whether the meal was a celebration or a consolation for his journey. Maybe it was neither; maybe it was just a meal, and he was drawing reckless conclusions. In the past, humans had not always been so kind to them.   

                “Stiles is one of the many hunters and gatherers of the village. Everything on this table has been harvested and butchered by him and the others. If anyone is to receive your gratitude, it should be them.”

                “Well, as the sole representative of your hunters,” Peter drawled, looking at Stiles, “we thank you for the deer.”

                His uncle had a strange sense of humor and delighted in treading the border between rudeness and sincerity. But Stiles’ eyes glinted with a sharpness of wit, much like Lydia’s had, and Derek considered that the Chief’s son could be a worthy opponent for Peter’s cunning.

                “I will be sure to pass the compliment to Chris. More often than not, he brings down our larger game with the arrows he fashions.” Stiles popped a mushroom into his mouth.

                They waited until they had finished their meal to talk seriously, as only good manners would allow. They remained at the table, their dirty bowls pushed towards the center to create a more relaxed air.

                “We should discuss the terms of the alliance,” the Chief declared, placing his forearms on the soft grain of the table.

                “Straight to business. Just like my nephew.” Peter smiled and leaned back in his chair.

                “I think it would be a waste of both my time and Alpha Hale’s to pretend this is something other than it is.” The Chief was firm in his response but did not seem offended. A leader of his duration knew when to rise to provocation.

                “I agree, Chief Stilinski. Let us confer.” Derek shot a pointed look at his uncle, warning him to relent. Peter thought the best way to discern the substance of a person was by driving them to social and emotional extremes.

                “Within the boundaries of our alliance, neither human nor wolf shall attempt to harm one another. The union of my son, Stiles, to Alpha Hale will be a gesture to convey our commitment to this alliance as well as a method to inextricably link both of our people. At which point, we will mutually benefit from the pooling of our resources and defensive capabilities.”

                “I will honor those conditions,” Derek conceded. “But in the eventuality of a marriage, Stiles will live with my pack until, and if, we can integrate our people.” He spoke to the Chief but watched the son. What he asked for was not a radical request; as mates, they should remain together, and Derek could not very well abandon his pack. However, he had no intentions of keeping Stiles from his own friends and family, even if integration was not possible.

                The Chief nodded as if he had expected that stipulation. His son remained silent but felt Derek’s stare and challenged him with a returning glance edged with defiance.

                Amazingly, Derek averted his own eyes first. He, who had glared down feral wolves before, cowered under the glimpse of a human just barely past the threshold of adulthood. This spike of emotion was a jolting contrast to the young man’s earlier, bland indifference.

                “What of any children?” Peter asked, sipping from his cup. Stiles’ head snapped over to his uncle, and his body tensed visibly. Still, he said nothing. 

                “Assuming the integration is successful, none of my grandchildren will automatically succeed me as Chief. Similarly, neither will Stiles. The role is voted upon every other year by the villagers.”

                “Alpha roles are inherited amongst most wolves, are they not?”

                Stiles’ interjection, unexpected as it was, drew his attention. Derek felt foolishly flattered that the human knew anything about wolf culture, but he had forgotten that this was not Stiles’ first encounter with wolves. He had been another’s mate not long ago, from what he could piece together from the Chief’s telling. Maybe it was Stiles’ youth that made Derek reject all memory of a past spouse.

                Peter would have replied if not for Stiles directly addressing him instead. His uncle loved the sound of his own voice.

                “Yes. Alphas rule for life, until death by natural or unnatural causes.” His heart twinged with even the faintest mention of his own Alpha. “In rare circumstances, the Alpha can be deemed unsuitable to lead and evicted from the pack. A beta rises spontaneously to the rank of Alpha to fill the gap.”

                “How?” A small indent formed between the young man’s brow that Derek interpreted as genuine interest.

                “It is mostly unknown, I am afraid. A beta can kill for power, but usually, the next Alpha is either chosen by some greater force within nature or ascends randomly. Neither can be proven.”

                Suddenly, a shrill but muffled cry filled the air.

                Stiles stood up. “Excuse me.”

                “Forgive me,” Peter interrupted, “but might we see your child? An introduction to the entire family.” While males who could bear children—Carriers—were not rare, they were not abundant either. When he was a child, he remembered meeting a beta couple, both men, from a migrating pack that had triplets.

                “ _Peter_ ,” he admonished, for undoubtedly, the comment was too familiar. But Peter was still his uncle, and as such, deserved respect, so Derek did not flash his eyes and force Peter into submission in front of strangers. Not yet.

                “It is fine, Alpha Hale. I appreciate your uncle’s candor at the very least. Again, excuse me.”

                The baby’s cries continued in the background, punctuated by the soft mumble of Stiles’ voice, soothing his infant. The Chief chuckled, drumming his blunt fingertips quietly against the table. “My son is not intimidated easily, and he speaks his mind with ease.” The man let his gaze settle lightly on Peter. “I assure you, Stiles’ sensibilities are the last thing you will need to defend if you marry.”

                Stiles pushed the flap of fabric aside and returned to the table, having humored Peter after all. A babe was hitched on the young man’s hip, and as he sat, he placed the child on his lap, leaning it against his own stomach. Leaning _him_. Stiles had a lovely little boy.

                The infant peered at him and his uncle with the oversized eyes of one his age, recognizing that they were out of place and unfamiliar in his condensed world. Speaking of those eyes. The child had—

                “He has your eyes,” Derek blurted, and for a terrible moment, everyone turned to him.

                “Yes, I have been told.” It was not quite a “thank you,” but the young man seemed unbothered by his outburst. Perhaps Peter’s antics were becoming contagious after so many years of living with him. Derek had some sense of self-preservation and did not mention that the father and son shared the same nose as well. He would have betrayed just how much he had been staring at the Chief’s son.

                “You have a handsome son,” Peter complimented. “How old? Six, seven months?”

                “Halfway through his fifth, actually.” Stiles had pressed a hand to his child’s soft belly so he would not fall as the boy flung his arms, reaching and grasping excitedly at anything he could reach. Usually, it was the material of his father’s trousers.

                “He is marvelous. I remember when my own daughter was his age.” His uncle smiled with a rare kindness that could only be evoked in relation to his family.

                “Was it long ago?”

                “Oh, yes,” Peter chuckled. “My daughter, Malia, is your age now. What is your son’s name?”     

                Derek was taken aback by his uncle’s sudden pleasantness. He found himself at an utter loss to sit back and remain silent like a dolt. He was the only man present without a child; there was nothing he could contribute. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he was jealous how easily Stiles and Peter traded words when he only inspired wary glances from the Chief’s son.

                Conversation had never been one of Derek’s strengths.

                “Claudiu. It does not possess the most melodic cadence, but I thought I would keep alive the tradition of Stilinski children bearing slightly unpronounceable names.” The young man turned to his father, and the two shared a secret smile. Derek realized that “Stiles” was no more than a nickname derived from his surname.

                “What atrocious name did your parents bestow upon you, Chief Stilinski?”

                “Oh, no, I should have explained,” Stiles laughed. The accompanying smile split his face and made his eyes twinkle, the sound vibrant and joyful. Derek wanted to bottle the whole experience of Stiles’ laugh and carry it with him. “My father’s name is John. He and my mother are the ones who started the tradition.”

                “How tragic.”

                “There are worse things,” the Chief’s son responded, bouncing his son on his lap so that the baby squealed in delight.

                Much like himself, Stiles faded into the background, speaking no longer. The Chief and Peter were engaged in a discussion about the known packs bordering the Beacon Hills territory, as the connections and second-hand reconnaissance could prove useful in the future.

                Derek probably should have been participating, and he was thankful to have had a prior meeting with the Chief so that his potential father-in-law did not think him completely simple and timid. Instead, he observed Stiles cradling and kissing his son, how beautifully he assumed his fatherly role. Moments such as those seemed too intimate to watch, but Derek could not help himself.

                The Chief eventually held out his hands for his grandson, the child already asleep from his father’s lulling arms. Stiles began stacking bowls and clearing the table. No food was left over, and Derek imagined that after foraging every day, the hunters and gatherers knew how much to take from the forest around them.

                Derek stood up, feeling that he might transform into wood and become part of the chair he sat upon if he remained sitting and silent any longer. More immediately, he felt a need to contribute. Like in the humans’ village, everyone in his pack had a role, and as the Alpha, he was used to providing in some manner.

                Stiles dragged the cups gently from Derek’s grip. “Alpha Hale, you and your uncle are guests. Dishonor would fall upon my father and myself if you attended to us in our home.”

                “That was not my intention.” He chastised himself, begging to receive some form of positive feedback from the young man. A half-smile, a joking taunt, anything.

                “I know, Alpha Hale.”

                At nightfall, the Chief suggested that Stiles show them to the guest hut near the outskirts of the village. In parting, the man said, “I will give you my answer in the morning, before you leave.” They shook hands, and Derek made a small bow because the Chief was still his senior.

                The journey to their hut was too brief to strike up another conversation, so the young man guided them in silence. Derek’s eyes flicked between the night sky and the swish of Stiles’ hips. A crescent moon was waxing tonight.

                Peter bid the Chief’s son farewell at the door, offering his hand. “It was a pleasure, Stiles.”

                “Likewise.” Stiles took his uncle’s hand with a brief smile. Peter went inside, leaving them alone.

                “I will see you in the morning, then? One way or the other?”

                Stiles nodded. “One way or the other.” And he left.

                Derek watched him walk for a few seconds. The young man was not graceful exactly, but something in the way he moved was engrossing. When he entered the hut, he found Peter starting a fire for the night.

                “So, nephew, what do you think of the Chief’s son?” The smirk was audible in his uncle’s voice.

                 He crossed his arms and answered, “He is intelligent and attractive, and his hunting skills would prove valuable to the pack.”

                Peter scoffed and stood up, rubbing his hands down his trousers. A small fire was lapping at the kindling and growing behind him. “Loosen your girdle, Derek. It is just me here.”

                Derek sighed and sat down at their own table. “I do not think he cares much for me.”   

                “Cares for you?” his uncle repeated incredulously. “He does not _know_ you. That is a tall order to ask the boy to care for you after a few hours of light conversation.”

                “You know that is not what I meant. I-I hardly said anything to him, and none of it was particularly noteworthy.”

                His uncle laughed and occupied the seat next to him. “I thought that was why you brought me along. To speak for you when your excessive contemplation of minutiae has prevented you from doing so.” It was a fair appraisal; Derek could not find fault in his uncle for it.

                “What about you, Peter? What is your assessment?”

                An impish grin crossed his uncle’s face. “I think that boy is a little spitfire when he wants to be. Dangerously smart and fiercely loyal. I do not think he will give you an easy time…That being said, you would be an absolute fool if you did not rise to the challenge.”

                From Peter, the words were a glowing recommendation.

* * *

                At dawn, the Chief and his son knocked on the door of their hut as he and Peter smothered the last of the burning coals in the fireplace.

                “Yes, I accept,” Chief Stilinski stated. “The marriage will be in a month’s time if that is amenable.”

                “It is,” he replied instantly.

                “It will be held here in the village.” Stiles was not a bride, but as the father of the child being given away, the Chief held the right to decide the location. “Your entire pack is invited, of course, and we will do our utmost to accommodate them. If you arrive a week in advance, we can start the preparations then.”

                “Of course, sir.”

                “Until then, Alpha Hale.” They gripped hands, as did Peter, and then he moved in front of Stiles. The young man met his eyes; they were nearly the same height.

                “I will see you soon, Stiles. May I…?” He gestured towards Stiles’ hand, and a blush spread across the young father’s face. He tilted his head slightly in a nod.

                The act was outdated and only traded in the most refined of circumstances, but it felt true to Derek at the moment. He raised Stiles’ hand to his mouth and kissed its back.

                “Farewell, Peter…Farewell, Alpha Hale.” When their eyes connected once more, Derek felt as if Stiles were the sun. Untouchable. Burning holes right through him.


	3. Chapter 3

**STILES**

                Tomorrow, Alpha Hale and his pack would arrive.

                In between routine chores and duties, the villagers had started preparing for the wedding. The builders who constructed and repaired the huts were assembling the marriage arch as they did for every union in the village. Scott and Kira would have their own in the fall, made from twisted tree limbs and twigs bound by twine. Although, his arch would be interspersed with flowers collected the morning of the ceremony and theirs with the fallen, multicolored leaves of autumn.

                Lydia had taken charge of his wedding attire, working tirelessly to sew a new shirt for him. Stiles had objected since he had clothes nice enough for the occasion, but from their years of friendship, he knew that arguing with Lydia was futile. Coincidentally, she had been telling him of a new stitch she developed that would mesh the cloth together more sturdily. It could be that her motives were not entirely altruistic, but all the same, he trusted Lydia without reserve. She was responsible for more than one of the innovations seen ’round the village.

                After the ceremony, a feast would be held with ale, but there would be little other signs of extravagance. Stiles would be excused from the hunting and gathering duties that morning.

                They had cleared nearly a dozen huts, some already empty and others used for storage. Still, accommodations for thirty wolves would be tight. Some of the smaller families had graciously agreed to combine households for the week. His father had even agreed to stay at Melissa’s so that a separate hut would not have to be allocated for him and Alpha Hale on their wedding night.

                Stiles sighed at the thought, even though he knew it was unwarranted. He knew little about Alpha Hale, but the wolf had done nothing to earn his dislike. Furthermore, Stiles would only cause himself more grief by dismissing his intended. This alliance had to last, and not just because the villagers would not support another one. Stiles did not think he could endure a second separation. He just could not.

                As it was, he had one week to socialize with his soon-to-be husband before they were bound forever.

* * *

                He and his father awoke early the next morning to anticipate their guests. Claud was always the first one up, which meant that Stiles was as well. The pressed dirt floor of the front room was soft and quiet underfoot as he walked circles with his son nursing at his breast.

                He was tired but would be unable to fall back asleep knowing that in mere hours, a pack of wolves would be swarming the village.

                They waited for the pack on the near side of the river. It was both too narrow and shallow for use of a boat, so the wolves crossed over the crests of risen rocks like stepping stones, the water frothing and streaming around their boots. The young and the bold and the ones not carrying children leapt from one bank to the other, crouching low as they landed to absorb the impact.  

                The Chief stepped forward once the Alpha reached the bank, and they clasped hands.

                “Welcome back, Alpha Hale.”

                “Much appreciated, Chief Stilinski.” More and more wolves were stepping up behind their Alpha, pooling and overflowing onto the bank as the river did during heavy rains.

                Stiles moved closer but offered no hand since both were securing Claud against his shoulder. He offered a respectful nod and bid the Alpha his own welcome.

                “I hope your journey was a pleasant one, Alpha Hale.”

                The Alpha’s eyes were bright, moving over his face with eagerness. As if the crumb of kindness Stiles had bestowed upon him was remarkable, sustaining. “It was. Thank you. You and your son look well.”

                “We are,” he agreed quietly, feeling the weight of dozens of stares. He was relieved when his father spoke.

                His voice rose to compensate for the current. “Welcome, Hale pack. On behalf of the entire village, we appreciate your coming and consider you all guests. Allow me and my son to show you to your housing.”

                As his father welcomed the wolves, Stiles searched the crowd. Men and women, children, an infant or two. Expectedly, Stiles recognized no one save for the Alpha’s uncle, Peter. He hated to admit to himself that he was looking for a specific face. He could not help doing so. He clung firmly to his child.

                As they trampled through the forest, Stiles found the Alpha walking to his left, the rest of his pack following behind out of decorum.

                “There are still many details to settle about the ceremony itself. I was hoping we could discuss them within the next day or two. At your discretion, of course.” Stiles flicked a brief glance towards his betrothed.

                “I would enjoy that very much.”

                Stiles laughed, and incrementally, a smiled bloomed across the Alpha’s face. An afterthought rather than a response. “You are excited to talk of wedding plans? I have to admit, this enthusiasm is unprecedented in my experience with leaders.”

                The wolf’s grin dampened, mouth collapsing into a straight line. He became cautious and hesitant for some unfathomable reason, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “I like thinking about our lives together.”

                Stiles wished he could return a similar sentiment, something warm and tender that would melt into the Alpha’s ears. But Stiles failed him, remained silent, listened to the trilling birds.  

                Alpha Hale quickly added, “It would also give me an opportunity to know my husband’s name before we actually marry.”

                Stiles hid his simper in the soft tuft of his son’s hair, pretending to adjust him against his bosom. “It will never pass my own lips willingly. I fear you will have to wait.”

                The Alpha’s lips lifted at their corners, and he combed through his black hair. “Very well. In the meantime, I hope you will call me by my name. I am not your Alpha, and you are my subordinate in no way but age.”

                “If that is your wish. Derek.”

                “Tomorrow then, Stiles. I will come for you.”

* * *

                 True to his word, Derek arrived at his hut the next afternoon, after Stiles had returned from his morning duties and retrieved Claud from Lydia’s home.

                 The wolf was staying in a hut with his uncle and cousin, whom Derek had pointed out to Stiles upon request. The other beta sharing their hut, Stiles did not know. He thought that Derek might have called him “Isaac,” but he could not recall for sure.

                “Good morning, Stiles.”

                “The same to you, Derek.”

                Stiles entertained a glimmer of hope. The sun was bathing his skin, a light wind tossing his hair, and it was hard not to feel renewed and alive, even if just for a short while. Derek seemed pleasant enough in their limited interaction. Not all marriages had to be based upon ruinous, passionate love; perhaps theirs could be based upon friendship.

                “Would you like to take a walk with me?” Stiles asked.

                “I would.”

                Stiles guided the Alpha to the other side of the woods that led them away from the river, the mountains. With the day’s hunting over, it would be deserted and lend some privacy. There was a clearing Stiles knew and a fallen, mossy log that was comfortable enough.

                “I have never seen a child so well-behaved. He barely cries.” Derek snuck glances at Claud, who was nestled in the crooks of Stiles’ arms, watching the tree line stagger against the backdrop of a pale sky.

                “I assure you, the first few months of his life were filled aplenty with crying, but yes,” Stiles smiled down at his child, “he is a sweet boy.” Claud recognized the context of his father’s upturned mouth and crinkled, adoring eyes. The baby giggled and shrieked, flinging his arms around in excitement.

                Derek snagged his bottom lip between his teeth, as if tentative to give life to his next words. “At our first meeting, your father told me that you were married at eighteen.”  

                “It is true,” Stiles responded simply.

                Derek’s eyes flicked to the ground in shame. “Forgive me, I should not have pried.”

                “I hardly call that prying, Derek. It is only that the story is long and dull, and I would not wish to bore you with my past woes.” Stiles replied primly but was struggling to swallow, his throat suddenly clogged. He found himself sinking into memories as easily as his foot sunk into the spongy decomposition of the forest floor.

                The Alpha stopped, falling back, and Stiles turned to him with his brow furrowed and prompting. “Whoever told you your pain was unimportant or inconvenient wronged you gravely. It would never bore me.” Stiles understood that Derek’s displeasure was not directed towards him, but the intensity of his compassion was startling.     

                “Then maybe some time I will tell you of it.” There was a lull in conversation until they arrived at the clearing. Between them, they had too many rough edges, like grating glass. Neither one of them could maintain pleasantries for long.   

                “The Chief mentioned to me your notion of a dual ceremony: a wolf’s mating ritual and a human’s wedding. It is a brilliant idea. Neither culture’s customs are ignored.”

                Stiles led them to the fallen log and adjusted his hold on Claud as he sat. “To be truthful, I am not entirely clear on all of the happenings within a mating ceremony. I just did not think it right that my own traditions be recognized but not my husband’s.”

                  Derek’s expression became puzzled. “I just assumed that you had done a mixed ceremony before as well.”

                “No,” Stiles replied grimly. “There was no time for a formal ceremony of any kind. We had lost ten villagers in three months to feral omegas.” A shudder of sickness and heartache assaulted him at the memory of so many deaths of friends. Allison, Victoria, Kate; Chris’ entire family gone in one vicious strike of events. And then there were Heather and Paige and too many others. “We fulfilled the basic requirements for both of our people to recognize the marriage, but that was all. No one was present save for our parents.”

                Derek remained silent long enough for Stiles to become unsettled, concentrating on his folded hands. “The major event is the mating bite, administered between the spouses. It often substitutes the marriage kiss, but it does not have to.”

                “Where must it be administered?” Stiles asked. He was not worried so much about the pain. If he could withstand childbirth, he could surely endure a bite.

                “At the meeting between neck and shoulder.” Derek dipped a hand inside of his own collar, revealing a firm ridge of collarbone. “It is meant to be partially visible above the shirt. To show that one wolf belongs to another. The permanence of the scar reflects the notion that wolves mate for life.”

                Not always.  

                “A likeness to wedding bands,” Stiles noted instead. Derek nodded. “Do I have to return the bite? I am not too keen on the idea of having a mouthful of your blood on our wedding day.”

                The Alpha laughed, baring teeth of which Stiles was now intimately aware. “I am afraid so. The bite does not have to be very deep. The intent is enough to make it scar on someone like myself. Another mystery surrounding my kind.”

                Blood was the beginning; blood was the end. In birth and death and breeding and life. Why not in this, too?

                “My friend, Lydia, wanted me to ask if your wedding garments needed any alterations or mending. She is the best seamstress in the village.”

                “No, but tell her I appreciate the offer.” Derek pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, exposing solid wrists and lean, sinewy forearms. The afternoon was warm with the sun still hovering near its peak. His loosely hanging hands were broad and sturdy like the rest of him. He could probably scoop up the entirety of the river with those hands.                                 

                Stiles inhaled deeply. “Her grandmother, Lorraine, is our priestess. However, you will hear her called the village mystic most of the time.”

                “How did ‘the village mystic’ become your priestess?”

                Stiles’ mouth pursed, and he squinted in concentration. “She has an uncanny foresight for death and hears sounds that no one else can.”

                Derek’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “And your village did not shun her for her abilities?”

                “Of course not. She has been a villager before many of us were born. Her skills are also invaluable; her predictions of fatalities can alert us to incoming attacks. She is connected to a superior force, and as such, she is the most qualified person for a priestesshood.”

                “Being a supernatural creature myself, I can hardly object to your village’s decision.”

                Stiles slipped his index finger into Claud’s miniature, fleshy fist so that he could squeeze and tug at it. “It would be hypocritical of us to expel a villager for showing superhuman qualities when I am marrying a werewolf…for the second time.”

                “I suppose it would,” Derek remarked quietly, looking among the trees.


	4. Chapter 4

**STILES**

                “Lydia, this is beautiful. Thank you, eternally.” Stiles stared at the garment Lydia had created for him to put over his best white linen shirt. It was not quite a vest, for the ties only ran down to his waist but the fabric flowed down to his mid-thigh. The collar was also unusual as it stood short and upright, banded.

                Reading his face, Lydia stated, “I know the cut is odd, but I promise you, it will frame your body perfectly.” The material was a plain cream, embroidered with golden thread that Lydia could have only traded for at the market in the city.

                “I bartered five dresses for one spool of that thread nearly two years ago, and I have been waiting for something special to use it.” Stiles traced over the raised areas down the front of the vest where the thread overlapped and thickened to form ornamental tendrils and the trees of their forest. Lydia grew impatient and slapped Stiles’ hands out of the way so that she could tie him up herself.  

                Stiles heard Scott laugh from the side of the room. His friend had always said that he and Lydia squabbled like a long-married, elderly couple.

                “There,” Lydia sighed happily, straightening the fabric and dusting off his shoulders. That morning, she had looked through all of his clothes and tossed a tan pair of trousers at his face rather rudely. He had to admit that all of the pieces of his attire complemented one another very well. And Lydia knew it, too.

                She smiled at Stiles, her hands hitched atop her curvaceous hips, and gazed at him as if he were her masterpiece. But Lydia deserved to bask in her achievement; he had often caught her working by candlelight when the sun’s light had burned from the sky, yelling at him to go away because she was still unfinished. Stiles knew that more than anything, Lydia wanted him to be happy with her efforts.

                “You look wonderful, Stiles. Very elegant,” Kira praised. He returned her smile despite feeling very foolish and stiff in his dress clothes.

                “If you were not already promised to Alpha Hale, I would marry you.” Scott winked, grin crooked, and his own betrothed swatted his shoulder playfully. Claud was bouncing happily in Scott’s lap, seemingly affected by the celebratory atmosphere.  

                “Thanks, Scotty,” he snorted. “You all look very fine as well.” His friends were in their grandest clothes, as everyone in both Derek’s pack and the village would be. So many people.

                His first wedding was so makeshift and hurried that Stiles could hardly compare it to this one. This time, he was to be married in front of his villagers and the wolves, all looking to him and Derek to make this a successful, prosperous union. All witnesses to the vows he was taking. Inevitably, this ceremony seemed much more permanent and towering than the first. Something from which he could not return.  

                Lydia looped her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “You deserve a proper wedding. Gods know you have earned one. Enjoy yourself.” In moments like this, where Lydia interpreted his emotions with unnatural ease, Stiles thought that maybe mysticism ran in the Martin family.

                “He seems kind, like a good Alpha, based on what you and your father have said,” Kira commented. Her words would have rung hollow if Stiles did not believe them himself.  

                “He is also very handsome, and I have witnessed many rippling muscles,” Scott joked. Stiles broke into a laugh and buried his face in his hands, part amusement and part embarrassment.

                His friends were so very dear to him. He ached for the day he would have to leave them.

* * *

  **DEREK**

                “I do not think I have ever seen you so affected,” his cousin teased. Half of Malia’s mouth was raised in a smirk as she sat on his bed.

                Derek finished dressing himself in the tunic his uncle lent him from his own mating ceremony. He secured a black leather belt around his waist and pushed a hand through his hair.

                “Stop that,” Malia scolded. “Your hair was looking manageable for once.” Derek scowled, but his cousin ignored him in favor of ruffling the front of his hair back to a precarious perfection.

                “That is better.” She smiled softly, all signs of mocking gone, and squeezed his shoulders. “It is time.”

                Malia left the hut they had been sharing and went to join her father and the rest of the crowd. Derek took a deep breath and followed.

                The ceremony would take place in the middle of the village, where the dirt trail bloated to form a clearing used for such occasions. He was pleased to notice that his wolves were mingling amongst the humans, although still in clumps. Some of them were even talking quietly as they waited for the ceremony to start. He could see Jordan whispering in Lydia’s ear, and Stiles’ friend, Scott, telling Liam something that made the young beta laugh.

                The crowd had split itself in two to create a path for him and Stiles. Peter and the Chief were at the front of the group, each standing to one side of the aisle. Stiles’ father propped his grandson high against his chest so the infant could examine the horde of people in awe. A gap separated them from the rest of the attendants as was appropriate for the parents or guardians of the intended. He noted with a brief burst of pain that neither he nor Stiles had a complete set of parents present.

                Derek took his place at the back of the mass, eyes trained on the door of Stiles’ hut. The hut in which they would spend their first night as a mated, married couple.

                The following thoughts made his blood heat. While he wanted companionship and family and affection with his husband, he also craved to know him intimately.  

                All eyes turned to Stiles as he walked up to Derek’s side. The young man’s gaze fluttered between him and the mass of people watching them. Wordlessly, he extended his hand.

                Derek intertwined their fingers and felt a weight lift in his chest. A sense of completion accompanied the warmth of Stiles’ hand, an intuition that things were as they should be. Wolves were helpless but to heed their instincts.

                They separated after reaching the front of the crowd, each taking an individual path to the back of the arch.  

                Stiles had explained the significance of the wedding arch days ago, as wolves never included them in the mating ceremony. The couple always walked behind the arch and stood underneath during the exchange of vows and rings. Only afterwards did the couple pass through it, having transitioned from their old, divided lives into their new, unified one. The symbolism seemed a little heavy-handed, but Derek supposed no more than marking one’s mate in front of everyone.

                He admired the construction of the arch itself, neat and sturdy, with an array of all the flowers the forest around them could offer. Some of them were familiar to Derek from the few journeys he had taken through the woods. Apparently, the arch would be disassembled and used as kindling for the large bonfire always held after weddings.

                 He stepped underneath, eyes latching onto Stiles as soon as they stood opposite one another. A tremble passed through his belly at the sight of his bridegroom. At the thought of being able to touch and hold such a rare beauty.

                Each of the officiates had taken their places behind the arch.

                It was a slow process learning names and matching them with faces of the villagers, but Derek could spot the Martin women with ease. They all possessed wild cascades of red hair and an intense, discriminating glance. Like they could decipher the contents of one’s soul with a single look. It was odd how similarly Lydia’s mother, Natalie, resembled Lorraine, despite their lack of a blood connection. Stiles had mentioned, with unintended vagueness, that none of the Martin men had ever lived in the village. In fact, Lorraine Martin had married a woman named Maddy several decades ago.

                Lorraine stood in front of them now, holding the box containing their rings.

                The introductory speech overlapped greatly between the marriage and mating ceremonies, so it would not need repeating. The priestess spoke of the union of two souls and families that brought them all together, asked the villagers and wolves for any reason the union should not proceed, and then began the vows.

                “Derek Hale, Alpha of the Hale Pack, in your heart of hearts do you intend to treat your husband as your equal, to love and honor and cherish him until the end of your life?”

                “I do,” he promised, slipping the marriage band onto Stiles’ slender finger. His husband’s heart was beating frantically, and through their linked hands, the human’s perspiration was slicking his palms. Derek brushed his thumbs along the top of Stiles’ hands to reassure him.

                Stiles’ head tilted barely, almost unnoticeable if not for the way he had been watching the young man so closely. He usually felt himself stripped to the bones whenever Stiles stared at him, but his husband’s gaze held no such ferocity this time. It was calculating, puzzled.  

                “Myślimir Stilinski, son of Chief John Stilinski of the Village, in your heart of hearts do you intend to treat your husband as your equal, to love and honor and cherish him until the end of your life?”

                Derek now understood why Stiles preferred “Stiles” as opposed to his birth name, but he hid his surprise so as not to upset him further. A heavy flush had already rouged his husband’s cheeks, and he would not add to his embarrassment. No matter how sweetly the blush brightened his eyes and accented his delicate moles. 

                “I do.” Stiles coaxed the band over the second joint of Derek’s finger, where it fit snugly.

                Lorraine produced a small pot of honey, another tradition of which Stiles had forewarned him. Derek immediately dipped one finger into the liquid, the color of Stiles’ eyes when the sun illuminated them. With his husband’s guidance, Derek knew to paint lightly over Stiles’ lower lip with the honey.

                He relished the plush swell of his husband’s mouth, soft and healthily pink. He swallowed deeply as Stiles parted his lips so that his finger could glide smoothly across the flesh, breath humid and sweltering over his fingertips.

                Stiles’ hand trembled faintly, but his touch was gentle as he coated Derek’s own top lip.

                “May every kiss afterwards be as sweet as this one,” the priestess wished, indicating for them to embrace.

                Derek was hesitant to gather Stiles in his arms, as was his desire. The only places they touched were their locked hands and their pressing lips. The sugared taste of honey swept across his tongue, and Derek longed to lick every trace from Stiles’ mouth.

                In what felt like no time, they parted, the stickiness of the honey allowing their lips to cling together for another precious second. The cheers and calls behind them felt muted, like trying to hear from underneath water.

                Derek imagined that a typical ceremony ended at this point, the couple passing through the arch to celebrate. They still had one last obligation to fulfill.  

                Stiles worried that he would lose courage to return the bite once he received it himself, so he opted to take the first turn. The best advice Derek could give him was to bite until he tasted blood and then stop.

                Satomi, his pack Elder, stepped forward to administer the mating rites. She may have only reached his shoulder, but she was arguably one of the oldest and strongest wolves alive. The fact that she deferred to him as her Alpha was an honor.                 

                “For centuries, a mate has acted as a wolf’s longtime companion and anchor to its humanity. The call of a mate rivals the call of a pack, with both bonds forged in blood. If you are willing and able, forge your bond.” Satomi finished the sacred words and flashed a quick smile in his direction. He knew that she was recalling fond memories of his own mother’s mating ceremony.

                Stiles closed in on him, releasing one of his hands but gripping the other formidably. He bent his neck to the side to accommodate his husband and shivered when he felt Stiles’ lips brush over his skin, dragging from the honey. His bite was sharp and sudden, like the strike of a snake, and Derek breathed through the pain.

                Stiles pulled away, his eyes wide and lips bloody, and Derek squeezed his hand in reassurance, in pride. The wolves were howling and clapping as Satomi handed him a small patch of cloth to cover his bite.

                He ached to comfort Stiles, to encourage him, but there was not much he could do here or now. Derek leaned in towards his mate, inhaling his rich scent, and Stiles’ body tensed in anticipation.

                “Do not let go of my hand,” Derek whispered into his husband’s ear. He eased Stiles’ collar aside, baring the pale skin of Stiles’ neck and the beginnings of his shoulder. A wave of heat crashed through him as he contemplated his mate’s entire body being so lovely and inviting. His moon-white skin would blossom vibrantly with Derek’s bite.

                He fitted his mouth to Stiles’ flesh and then snapped his jaws powerfully. The initial onslaught of pain would be intense, but prolonging the process would be worse. Stiles’ hand squeezed his tightly as the wolves renewed their roars and howls behind them. Satomi handed him a similar square of cloth to catch the welling blood, and he tucked it carefully under his mate’s pristine shirt and readjusted his collar to its appropriate location.

                Derek licked blood and honey off of his lips, and once seeing it himself, Stiles followed suit. Even half-beasts like himself would not wander around his wedding reception with blood smeared across his mouth. All the while, a deep, stinging pain was being carried through his veins, courtesy of Stiles’ suffering. It would fade as the night progressed.

                His mate was panting slightly, his eyes glassy as he watched his own pain shoot up Derek’s arms in black, squirming trails.

                Derek tugged Stiles’ hand to urge him forward, and the young man blinked as if he suddenly realized where they were. He followed Derek through the arch, down the aisle, and the celebration began.

                With the falling sun, the bonfire was started. Just as Stiles had said, several humans began cutting the twine that held the branches together and making a pile in the middle of the clearing.

                The Chief found them, holding his wiggling grandson who was captivated by all of the activity. He kissed Stiles on the forehead and stated, “Congratulations, son.” The smile was restrained, and his hand lingered on Stiles’ shoulder for too long. Derek reminded himself that their hesitance was due to the last alliance, that the only way he could prove his devotion was through his actions. It would take time.

                “Welcome to the family, Alpha Hale.” The Chief grasped his upper arm, more familiar than the standard handshakes they shared previously.  

                “Derek. Please, sir.”

                “Then you will call me John. I do not believe in trading titles with family.” Stiles looked shocked, as if his father did not extend the permission often. Perhaps he had not for his son’s previous husband.

                “Of course, John.” 

                “Good. I will leave the newlyweds to their night then.” He disappeared back into the crowd with a parting squeeze to his son’s elbow.

                Stiles was cradling Claud, and as he adjusted his right arm, he winced.

                “May I?” Derek’s hand hovered.

                His mate nodded faintly, and Derek cupped Stiles’ hand, feeling the cool and solid band beneath his fingers. Derek heard him sigh as the leftover, throbbing pain drained.

                “Thank you.”

                “I hope you will tell me if the pain becomes too much. I will gladly—I want you to enjoy your night.” As of yet, he had seen little sign of joy from Stiles.

                “I will.” Derek could not tell which of his wishes Stiles agreed to, but either would bring him some degree of satisfaction. “We should not keep our guests waiting any longer.”

                Stiles led him into the throng of people, wolves and humans alike. They had begun their festivities, a hearty fire spitting out the smoke and ashen remains of their wedding arch. Some roasted meat around its edge and others danced near it, far enough away that the ale they held in their free hands would not cause them to stagger into the flames.

                Many had brought out chairs from their homes, and others sat amongst the dirt and grass even in their finery. Two seats had been donated to them once they breached the inner mass near the bonfire, plates of food dropped into their hands. The grooms would want for nothing on their wedding night.

                And night was approaching steadily. He had married his husband with the last of the sun’s falling light, and now, the world was golden and shadowed.

                He and Stiles ate their food with their fingers, tore it with their teeth. No one used cutlery outside like they normally would have in their huts. The primal intimacy of the act resonated deeply in Derek’s bones, in the soul of his wolf.

                Somehow, Stiles managed to eat while still holding his son on his knee, keeping his plate out of reach from tiny, grasping fingers. Derek supposed that was part of being a parent, living life in a way that accommodated the presence and needs of one’s child. 

                 Derek finished eating first and wanted to offer to hold his stepson—always first and foremost, Stiles’ child—so that his mate could attend to his plate more easily. Instinct told him Stiles would politely refuse.

                Instead, he took a fortifying gulp of ale and said, “You look very beautiful tonight.”

                Stiles set his plate down onto the ground and flicked his gaze towards his husband. “You, too, look very handsome.” The warmth on Stiles’ cheeks could have been from the radiating heat of the fire, but he hoped it was not.

                Scott and his intended were one of many to come over to them with words of congratulations. The depth of his and Stiles’ friendship was obvious. Stiles became softer and happier in a way that he was not when talking to anyone else. Derek had only known Stiles for a month, but he longed to make his husband laugh and smile in such a way.

                Scott’s intended, Kira, had taken Claud as the pair went to eat, freeing Stiles for a dance. The music had slowed and softened, and he finally held his husband close as he had been yearning. Stiles’ hands met at the back of his neck, his own resting at his mate’s lower back.

                Stiles tripped over both of their feet, several times, stuttering out apologies. It gave Derek an excuse to grip him tighter, and so, he could not find it in himself to care very much. The glow from the fire lit his husband’s eyes, and somewhere in the midst of countless dances, Stiles had slumped against him, his cheek pressed to Derek’s shoulder as they rocked slowly in one another’s embrace.

                “Are you tired?” Derek asked quietly, stroking down the middle of Stiles’ back.

                “Hmm?” The noise was small and muffled with Stiles’ mouth pressed into his tunic. His mate lifted his head, eyes glistening and heavy-lidded.

                “Would you like to go home? You look spent.”

                Stiles nodded. “It has been a long day.”

                “It has,” Derek agreed.

                “And I should put Claud down for the night.” The child had been with Scott and John for most of the day, but Stiles had disappeared with him into his hut every few hours to feed him.  

                They searched through the lingering scatters of people until they found the baby sleeping in Lydia’s arms. Derek noticed that Jordan was still at Lydia’s side, nursing a cup of ale, talking quietly with her before the interruption.

                “Thank you for watching him, Lydia. And if you see Scott, could you tell him the same?”

                Lydia passed the infant back to his father. “Nonsense, darling. That is what godparents are for.”

                “I cannot believe he has fallen asleep amidst the noise,” Derek noted. Truly, every second was filled with laughter or talking or the movement of bodies.

                Lydia faced him, dazzling in a pale green dress that fluttered around her body in sheer, gauzy streams. “It happens every time I hold him. My voice probably soothes him.”

                “If by ‘voice,’ you mean your ample bosom,” Stiles chimed in. Jordan coughed into his ale, and Derek pretended to scratch his beard to cover his grin.  

                Lydia’s mouth opened in mock offense, and she pinched his shoulder.

                “Softer than any pillow I could ever buy for him,” his mate teased, grinning.

                “Off with you, Stilinski.” Amiably, she waved her hands as if to be free of them.  

                They wished her and Jordan a good night and made their way towards the periphery of the guests.

                “It has been a while since anyone has kept Lydia’s attention for so long.”

                Derek held the door open to their hut so that Stiles could pass through first with the child. “I have known Jordan many years. He is an honorable wolf, a trustworthy man.”

                He followed Stiles into the bedroom, brushing past the flap of fabric. His husband set the sleeping baby gently into his crib at the end of the bed. “Oh, I am not worried about that. Lydia is beyond capable of taking care of herself. I only meant that it is nice,” Stiles turned around to face him, “to see her happy with someone.”

                His mate flicked his eyes away and started untying the knot at the top of his vest. He exhaled noisily, muttering under his breath, fingers shaking as he tried to loosen the cord.

                Derek unfastened his belt, watching the struggle from the corners of his eyes. “Do you need some assistance?”

                “If you would not mind.”

                Patiently, he untangled the coil, and when Stiles did not intercede, began to unlace the rest of his vest.

                “If not for incurring Lydia’s wrath, I would have taken this off after the ceremony. It is an utter nightmare to nurse in.”

                Derek smiled faintly, concentrating on his task. “You will be free of it soon. How is your bite?”

                His mate touched a hand to the spot. “I had forgotten about it until now, truthfully. I suppose that is because of you.”

                He eased the vest off of Stiles’ shoulders, laying it over the back of a chair. “That is the last time I intend to cause you any pain.”

                Stiles sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, keeping his eyes on his working hands. “And yourself? Have I worsened your own pain?”

                “No, I feel no pain.” He undressed until he was left in nothing but his linen shorts. From the rigid line of his husband’s shoulders, he ventured that Stiles knew it.

                “There is no shame in looking,” he added softly, edging forward. Stiles rose to meet him when he reached the end of the bed, elegant throat rippling as he swallowed.

                His hand crept to his mate’s cheek, cupping smooth skin and curving bone. This close, the drumming of Stiles’ heart was overwhelming in the stillness of the room.

                He leaned in, and Stiles turned away, leaving his lips to drag against his jaw. “Stiles?”

                “Derek, I cannot—”

                “I understand.” He truly did, but it did not lessen the sting of dismissal.

                “I doubt that,” his husband whispered, eyes searching.

                “Six months ago, you gave birth to a child from another man. I understand.”

                 Silently, Stiles turned his back and stripped down to his own undershorts. A dark freckle dotted each shoulder blade, his spine rising to the surface of his skin as he bent to untangle his trousers from his ankles. Derek felt such a stifling adoration that he almost reached out to touch the knobs of bone, but he thought better of it. His mate would not want him to.  

                “Husband.” Stiles had one knee on the bed already, his hand outstretched, candlelight dancing off of his wedding band.

                Derek licked his thumb and second finger, snuffed the light. He slotted his fingers in between his mate’s and let the young man lead them to bed. Stiles turned onto his side, arranging them back to front and dragging Derek’s hand with him until it pressed to his own flat belly. Where his child had grown, where his tender womb nestled.

                Perhaps one day, after many years had passed.

                He did not sleep for many hours, well past the time Stiles’ body grew limp and his breathing ebbed and flowed. It was his wedding night, and he would savor the closeness of his husband. Even if not in the way he intended.

                Stiles’ hair was smoky from the bonfire where Derek nosed, a lingering scent of salty meat and sugar on his mate’s breath. Derek scarcely moved for fear of waking him, but his fingertips skipped over sleek, silken skin.

                 Just this once, he wished that the morning would dawdle in the skies and arrive late.


	5. Chapter 5

**STILES**

                Derek had taken his pack for a midnight run through the forest, a tradition many wolves carried out during the full moon. He remembered his first Alpha doing the same with his own betas.

                He and Derek spent much of their first week of marriage together, but fortunately, his husband understood the value of time apart. He graciously declined Stiles’ offers to accompany him to see his friends. Derek saw the meetings for what they truly were: a week-long goodbye. Never let it be said that his husband was unperceptive.

                Stiles cherished his last few morning hunts with Chris and Kira, foraging through the sun-dappled forest. Treasured the evenings he spent with Lydia behind her hut, swirling clothes in dye barrels with a stick, taunting one another. He and Scott often spent sunset at the river bank, skipping stones or letting Claud dance over the water.

                “Did I wake you?” Derek whispered as he slipped into bed, tucking himself against Stiles’ back. His skin was chilled for once, from the night breeze, his nipples hard and peaked, dragging over Stiles’ back as he settled. Stiles shivered.

                “No. You move like a ghost.”

                “I will warm up soon.” His husband rubbed gently up and down his arm, thinking him cold. Stiles did not dare to correct him.

                “Do you run naked?” he murmured.  

                A huff of hot breath hit his nape when Derek laughed. “No. Merely without my shirt.”

                “Do you not run as a full wolf, then?”

                “Sometimes I do. Other times I like to feel the wind on my skin.” The wolf brushed his nose across the back of Stiles’ neck.  

                Derek’s hand rested over his stomach, as it did every night. His husband had not tried to bed him again, but he still offered brief affections. A peck on the temple some mornings, a quick press of lips to Stiles’ knuckles before he embarked on his morning chores. He never asked for anything in return, and so, Stiles never asked him to stop.

                “Tomorrow need not feel like a goodbye,” the wolf urged softly. “We can visit whenever you like.”

                He refused to ask Derek if they could stay another week. That was selfish thinking, juvenile. The young children of the pack, the families, all wanted to return to their homes as much as Stiles wanted to remain at his. He needed to think beyond his own comforts.

                “You really intend to relocate your pack and live amongst us?”

                “I cannot ask over two hundred people to move for thirty wolves. The most practical option is to merge with the village. Your father and I have both agreed to raise the issue with our people in the next few weeks. Hopefully we can begin planning before winter comes.”

                “And your pack will support such a measure?” Stiles asked in the darkness, mind heavy with drowsiness and contemplation.

                His husband sighed. “For various reasons, yes. Several of my packmates were born human. Bitten without consent by rogue alphas recruiting members or mauled by feral omegas. Isaac was one of them.”

                Stiles recalled the beta from the wedding, with curly, gilded hair and an angelic face. He had kept close to his pack members for most of the night, but Stiles had seen him with Chris at one point.  

                Derek continued quietly, voice hushed to prevent waking Claud. “He was torn and bloody when I found him, his family already dead. He asked me to change him, to save him. And then there is Ethan, who lost his twin brother to a band of humans that trapped and killed our kind for sport. My pack has known bloodshed, as has your village. They know it is time to start protecting wolves and humans alike, not just ourselves.”

                Stiles placed his hand over his husband’s, and a silence settled in the room. From the end of the bed, the tiny rushes of Claud’s breaths were barely audible. Somehow, amidst the worry of tomorrow, with Derek’s hot skin blanketing his back, he found sleep.

* * *

                They left in the morning. Those who were neither close friends nor relatives set about their chores as usual.

                Ken and Natalie were in the midst of their lessons and could not come. Kira’s father oversaw the children’s literacy and the histories while Natalie governed the natural sciences. They had wished safe journeys and good health to himself and Derek yesterday.

                Ken’s wife, Noshiko, also found herself unable to attend the pack’s send-off. Her duties were too critical to skip a morning’s worth of work. For the builders, this time of year was reserved for patching and reinforcing damaged huts, fortifying them for the approaching seasons. And if the plan for integration passed during the village forum, she would have plenty of work ahead of her.

                Stiles found both himself and his son passed from loved one to loved one. Claud’s godparents cooed over the child, stroking his fine cheeks and kissing his little fists. Meanwhile, Stiles endured a bone-breaking hug from his father that was only to be rivaled by Melissa’s. Afterwards, he found himself undoubtedly sore and aching. In several different ways.

                Lovely Kira had tears in her eyes when she squeezed his hand, but her voice was firm when she promised to see him soon. She was a perfect mixture of her father’s gentleness and her mother’s strength.

                He ended with Scott, as was the only option. His friend placed a solid kiss against his forehead and whispered his love into Stiles’ ear. Thankfully, Derek was not an overly possessive Alpha, and he accepted Scott’s hand and regards without malice.

                His family waved from the bank of the river, and Stiles looked back every few seconds until the trees were too dense to see them anymore.

                Derek touched his arm for attention after a few minutes of walking. “We planned on stopping halfway to rest and eat. Will you need to break more often to feed Claud?”

                Stiles smiled. “No. I can walk and nurse at the same time. One of my talents.”

                The wolf never ceased to beam whenever Stiles teased him. “Indeed.”

                The pack turned out to be rather playful. Malia, Isaac, and Liam spent the first half of their journey trying to trip one another and then chasing after the successful perpetrator, weaving through nearby trees but always staying close to the pack. Derek rolled his eyes and sighed, but an obvious fondness and pride infiltrated his features.

                The young children who could, shifted into full wolf pups, trotting along next to their parents. Three precious little cubs. All with white or cream underbellies and varied coats of gold, gray, or black. Stiles could not imagine hurting something so sweet and innocent any more than he could his own baby cradled in his arms.

                “I did not know children could shift entirely so young.”

                Derek grinned as he watched the frolicking pups. “Oh yes. The ability typically presents itself between two and four years.”

                “Is it common? To produce a full shift?” His eyes tracked the perfect little paw prints in the mud as he stepped over them.

                “About as common as Carriers.”

                “Would your children have the ability, do you think?” Stiles did not realize the foolishness of his words until he had already spoken. He had driven himself into a conversation he had been avoiding at all costs. Derek’s children, of course, would not only be _his_ ; they would be _theirs_. And Stiles did not know if he could even—

                He swallowed against the rising sickness and found Derek staring at him. Maybe his husband saw the pleading within his eyes, begging him to leave the comment alone, for Derek simply replied, “If the child is in fact a wolf, then...possibly.”

                “And your wolf?” Stiles asked, diverting the discussion back to a safer topic. “What does he look like?”

                “All black. Except for the eyes, of course.” The Alpha’s eyes flickered ruby-red for a moment.

                “Of course, I should have known,” Stiles chuckled, automatically reaching out to tuck an errant lock of pitch-black hair behind Derek’s ear. He realized his mistake a second later. Honestly, he had no idea what had possessed him today to engage in such destructive behaviors. His husband’s eyes were intent upon him as he captured his wrist and pressed a feather-light kiss against the veins.

                When Derek released him, Stiles readjusted Claud in his arms, exhaling in relief when his child began to cry. He would have been at a complete loss of how to respond to the wolf.

                “He is hungry?”

                “Yes. Although, I am not accustomed to feeding him in the middle of a crowd.”

                “Right. We can fall back.” Derek placed a palm on the small of his back while the pack streamed around them. Their Alpha had given no order to stop, so they continued forward.

                At the beginning of their travel, Derek had maneuvered them into the center of the mass of wolves, with the rest of the people who had children. No one had to tell Stiles that Derek normally led the pack; it was the Alpha’s duty. But Stiles also knew that an Alpha would not leave his or her new mate unattended. Therefore, Peter and Satomi headed the front of the pack, and Malia, Isaac, Liam, and several others guarded the lateral margins.

                He and Derek only rejoined the moving throng when no one was left save for Jordan and Ethan bringing up the rear.  

                With one arm, Stiles held his son, and with the other, he began unraveling the ties at the front of his shirt. In preparation, he had left them unknotted this morning.

                “I could take him until you—” Derek began.

                “Thank you, but I am able.” He forced pleasantness into his words; his first instinct had been to snap at the wolf.

                He folded aside one of the breast panels of his shirt and tilted Claud towards his nipple. The child latched and quieted, happily suckling. Stiles enjoyed the private satisfaction that came from caring for his baby in a way only those who birthed a child could. Of knowing that his son would grow strong and healthy with all of his father’s milk and love to nourish him.

                “Are you trying to commit the scene to memory?” Stiles quipped. He did not need to look at Derek to know that the Alpha was staring. Furthermore, the falter in his husband’s voice was damning evidence. The hotness in Stiles’ own face awakened a spark of indignation, and he wanted to turn away and hiss at Derek, to shield himself and Claud.

                “Forgive me.” The wolf resolutely turned his eyes ahead, blinking an excessive amount. “You looked so gorgeous with your son in that moment.”

                Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek. Annoyance still fizzled inside him, but he supposed that if anyone was allowed to watch him breastfeed, it would be his own husband.

                He relaxed and snorted, now set upon overcompensating for his flaming cheeks. “I cannot imagine what you find so interesting. It is not as if I actually have any breasts, Derek.”

                The two wolves behind them snickered, and the side of Derek’s upper lip lifted in a snarl. A gentle reminder from their Alpha. The laughter dissolved quite suddenly.

                When Derek faced forwards again, his mouth quirked into a small smile, and Stiles had to hide his own. He did not wish to be a bad example for the betas.

                “I have yet to find anything else in this world as interesting as you, Stiles.”

* * *

                They reached the wolf dens by mid-evening. The homes were not so different from the huts in the village. Wooden, with slanting tops so that the rain and snow would drain.

                The dens were built towards the edge of the forest where the trees grew sparse. The base of the mountains was seemingly no more than an hour’s walk away.

                After an early start and a long day’s walk, there was little socialization amongst the wolves. Families and housemates filtered into their own dens for supper and rest. Derek led him and Claud to their own dwelling.

                The inside was a single room with a fireplace and a bed in the opposite corner. The usual adornments: a sturdy table with surrounding chairs, baskets of clothes. It was simple and practical. His husband and his father had similar styles of leadership it seemed.

                Derek unloaded his bundle of possessions, as well as the sack of Stiles’ things that had been taken from home. Clothes, a few ointments and herbs from Melissa, and a bracelet that his father had given his mother. The wolf had refused to let him carry anything besides Claud.

                “Are you hungry?” Derek queried, starting a fire in the hearth.

                “Yes, I could eat.”

                The woven crib by the bed had been donated by one of the pack women whose own children were now grown. Stiles would have to thank her tomorrow. He pulled a blanket from his sack and lined the crib, making sure no hard edges were exposed.

                “There, my darling.” Stiles laid Claud into the soft nest, kissing his forehead. The boy swung his arms half-heartedly, his eyelids heavy. It was near time for his evening nap.

                Derek was busy skinning the two rabbits he had caught earlier. The wolves needed no traps or bows to catch squirrels and other small creatures like they did in the village. They were natural predators, fast and efficient in killing their prey.

                He skewered the meat onto a spit and held it over the fire while Stiles cut the stems off of the wild onions he had gathered along the way. He shared them with any wolf who would take one, but many were wary.

                While the wolves were superior hunters, they knew little about plants. What to eat and where to find them, what time of the year certain herbs emerged. Stiles would try to teach them, if they were willing.

                During supper, Derek scrutinized the onion in his hand for several seconds, as if unsure what to do with it. Stiles chuckled and bit into the side of his, like one would an apple. As he expected, the wolf mimicked his actions and started coughing almost immediately, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.

                Stiles swallowed the sweet mouthful before adding. “They may perhaps be a little strong. If one is not used to them.” His words warbled as he tried to restrain his laughter.

                Derek drank deeply from his cup, grinning, and took another crunching bite just to show him who the Alpha was.

                “Plants will cleanse your body of all that meat and carnage,” Stiles assured.

                “So your trickery was for my own well-being, then?” Derek’s eyes glittered as he leaned forward, gazing with amusement.

                “Of course, husband,” Stiles replied, mouth curling wickedly as he turned back to his plate.

                Derek built up the fire after dinner in the hopes that it would last the night. They turned in early, and judging by the quietness outside, the rest of the pack had a similar idea.  

                As Stiles settled into Derek’s bed, he noted its unknown texture and strange contours. The woods did not smell the same here, and the wolves relied on mountain springs for water instead of a river. Life right now was strange and new, yes, but not unbearable as he had assumed.

                Derek had given him hope last night. That they could live together in the village, wolves and humans. That Stiles could maintain the alliance and keep his home at the same time. The universe rarely allowed such a possibility.

                Those thoughts simply made what he had to do next even more grueling. If it was only himself he had to look after, he would have held his tongue and luxuriated a while longer in a surprisingly unterrible day. But he could not afford such a luxury, the way things were.

                He twisted in Derek’s hold until they were facing one another, and his husband smiled tenderly in response. It was undeniable that he had enjoyed Derek’s company today. He wished he did not have to mar the amiability that they had shared only this morning.  

                “Derek, you have only shown me kindness and patience since we met. Believe me when I say I take no joy in this.”

                His husband’s brow furrowed, and he cupped Stiles’ elbow. “In what?”

                “I know what often happens to a mate’s child not born of the Alpha.” His voice dropped into a deadly evenness of which he had not intended, a consequence of his hot blood and nightmares. “And I must warn you, that if you attempt to harm my son, I will cut your heart out of your chest.”

                And with that, Stiles turned back to his other side.


	6. Chapter 6

**STILES**

Stiles woke to an empty bed. Not exactly surprising. Things were often uglier in the stark light of morning. For several minutes, he remained in bed. He did not know his role here, his responsibilities.

                Claud was fussing in his cradle when Stiles got out of bed, ready to be fed. Stiles paced circles inside of the den with his son in his arms, his eyes flitting around the room.

                Several metal wash tubs full of water were sitting next to the door, along with a pile of kindling. He sighed. It would have been more bearable if Derek had left him to fetch the resources himself, but he should have known better.  

                His husband must have rebuilt the fire this morning as well, the flames still hot and high. He heated the water until it was tepid and then bathed Claud with soap and a soft rag. By the time he had finished, he had no other choice but to clean himself as he was covered in splashed water and soap suds. His baby had always enjoyed bath time. Afterwards, he dumped the dirty water out back, hanging the damp cloths off of the back of the chair to dry. One tub of water still sat near the door, enough to drink and use for cooking for the rest of the day.

                He would either need to ask Derek where the wolves gathered their water or find it on his own. He refused to become a burden.

                Before leaving the den, he smothered the fire with ashes so as not to waste the wood and heat in an empty home.

                To leave his hands free, he placed Claud in the cloth sling Melissa had given him and hung a gathering satchel over his shoulder. He passed several wolves as he moved deeper into the forest, some nodding or wishing a good morning, others unconcerned with his presence and going about their duties.

                The wolves seemed to divide their chores in a different manner from the villagers. Denmates were responsible for their own washing, sewing, and feeding, but the entire pack cooperated for larger tasks such as construction and defense. Select individuals also occupied specific roles within the pack. Apparently, the wolves had the equivalent of a healer, although they called him an emissary. Parents or relatives taught their pups to control aspects of the shift but turned to Satomi or born wolves like Jordan or Peter for further assistance. And then there was Derek, of course.  

                Until given new instruction, Stiles would do as he had done nearly every morning of his life. He would gather, and although he was alone in his efforts, he was collecting for a considerably smaller number of people. Furthermore, he would leave the hunting to the wolves, saving himself much time and exertion.  

                Whatever he found was placed in one of the two pockets of his satchel. The roots, plants, and nuts were placed in one compartment, the berries in the other. He touched his finger to Claud’s soft mouth and let the baby have his first taste of berry juice. His son would be moving on to solid foods soon enough, his gums hardening with the promise of emerging teeth. It was a noticeable difference, especially when nursing.

                Claud smiled and giggled, drivel escaping the corners of his lips in his enthusiasm.

                “Yes,” Stiles cooed, grinning, “Is that not better than trying to bite through my nipples?” His son stared at him with his wide, honey eyes, the picture of perfect innocence. Stiles sighed in defeat and kissed Claud’s forehead.   

                He decided to turn back once he had filled his satchel. By then, it would be late enough in the day for him to make his rounds to the dens and try to distribute his yield.

                “How does one tell whether the berry is poisonous or not?”

                Stiles’ body jerked in surprise, and Claud made a disgruntled noise against his chest. He turned around to see Malia standing a few feet away with her arms crossed.

                “The stems and the color of the fruit. Mostly from unfortunate past experiences and information passed down from elders.”

                Malia nodded, her forehead tensed in contemplation. It was frighteningly similar to Derek’s own thoughtful expression. “You have valuable knowledge. We could benefit from it.”

                Stiles was momentarily taken aback by her admission, having already witnessed reluctance in some of the wolves. “I feel the same. I want to contribute to this pack.”

                Malia’s lips lifted into a brief smile. “I am happy to hear that. Because we want you to feel like a part of this pack.”

                Stiles could summon no more than a half-smile in return. “Thank you.”

                The wolf was watching him with intent, and he sensed that she was talking circles around the real purpose of her visit. He was neither scared nor worried, simply wary of enduring another uncomfortable conversation.

                He turned back to the patch of wildflowers and tied off the bundle with a pliable shoot of a nearby vine. They could add some life and color to the den, perhaps make it feel more like a home than a house.

                “How did you find me?” he asked, tucking the bunch of flowers into the top of his satchel. Stiles straightened up and placed a hand under Claud’s back to ease the strain of the sling on his neck. He abandoned his earlier idea to keep foraging and decided to return to the den at once, where he was not prone to such ambushes.

                Malia tapped the side of her nose. Of course. It had been a while since he lived among wolves; he had forgotten.

                “Let me carry something. Your hands are full.” She was a bit more forceful than Derek in the sense that she did not actually wait for a response or negotiation of any sort. The she-wolf stepped up to him and hauled the satchel onto her own shoulder.

                She read his thoughts. “Unless you would like to trade?” Her eyebrows were poised high on her forehead in challenge.

                “No, thank you.”

                “As I thought,” she replied, falling into step next to him. Malia strolled along with ease, but the silence was crippling him. He felt as if he were balanced on the precipice of a cliff, waiting to either be pulled back or pushed over the edge.

                “I saw my cousin today,” Malia noted casually. And there it was, the tipping point, the moment of weightlessness that made his stomach lurch.

                “Oh.” His voice wavered over the single syllable.

                “I have never seen him in such a mood. Looking hollow and sullen and gutted. Like a walking corpse. He has been patrolling the boundary of our territory all morning, fully shifted.”

                “And?” Stiles swallowed, the muscles in his jaw ticking. He only looked ahead.

                “You are responsible for that,” the wolf stated evenly, with neither contempt nor blame. Her words were matter-of-fact and naked, irrefutable.

                Stiles experienced a palpable discomfort when he finally acknowledged Malia’s implications. “My aim was not to hurt him. I did not want to,” he finished quietly.

                The cousin’s eyes slid over to him. “I believe you. I know nothing of what happened, and I will not ask. Your marriage is between yourself and my Alpha.”

                “Then what are you trying to say to me, Malia?”

                She pulled him to a stop by the forearm, with a surprising gentleness. “I would consider you insane if you were not cautious amongst a new pack. But we are not your last pack.” Malia caught his eyes and held them. “And he is not your last Alpha.”

                Stiles blanched and staggered slightly, steadying Claud in his arms. “What do you know of—?”

                “Nothing. It is plain to me. As plain to me as Derek’s care for you.”

                He shook his head, trying to dispel any such thoughts from grasping and taking hold. “We are acquaintances at best. He could not…”

                Malia’s eyes darted across his face before the she-wolf sighed and tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, indicating for them to walk once more.

                “For someone who has had considerable experience with wolves, you forget our nature. We feel the same emotions as humans, but we feel them differently. Sensations of sight, sound, and smell are more vivid and richer for us.”

                “I know this, Malia,” Stiles stated in exasperation.

                “But you missed the point, Stiles.” She paused in her monologue to escort him and Claud across a narrow creek, holding Stiles’ elbow and taking careful steps until they were both on solid ground rather than slippery stones. The action seemed to be more automatic than planned, as Malia returned seamlessly to their conversation. Stiles was rather touched by it, especially since the woman was in the midst of scolding him. “Wolves explore potential mates not just through words or actions like humans. But through shifts in scent, the changing tempo and rhythm of a heartbeat, a gut feeling. Physical cues that are revealing because they cannot lie.”  

                Stiles replied with passivity. “He is not in love with me, Malia. Love at first sight or the like is a child’s notion.”

                Malia hopped with ease over a fallen log, even in her long skirts, probably restless from the dragging pace Stiles was keeping. “I cannot answer for him either way. All I am saying is that Derek has lost too many people to be fickle or careless with his love.”

                “His parents,” Stiles murmured, feeling a kindred stab of pain.

                The wolf nodded. “And his older sister, Laura. We all thought she would inherit the Alpha role after my Aunt Talia. They were murdered by hunters.”

                Stiles recalled a similar thread of conversation from only two nights prior. “The same hunters that killed Ethan’s brother?”

                “Aiden? Yes. This spring, it will be four years past since their deaths.” Malia tucked her chin-length, loose curls behind her ear, and in that moment, she looked heartbreakingly lovely and vulnerable. She had endured her own trials, with no family present save for her father and Derek. Stiles had never seen nor heard mention of her mother.

                “I am sorry. It must have been a terrible time for you and the pack.”

                “It was,” Malia conceded. “You see, Derek is a worthy Alpha not because of his strength or his bravery but because of his love. The love you are so terrified to embrace. He would sacrifice himself for any member of this pack. Including you. Including your son.”

                As they reached the edge of the den sites, Malia slipped the satchel back onto his shoulder. “I wish you luck with your deliveries, Stiles. As you know, trust is a gradual, _mutual_ endeavor. Some of the wolves are still convinced you are trying to poison them with your herbs.” She winked and loped between the staggered dens, disappearing into the haze of cooking fires and bustling wolves.

* * *

                Stiles spent an hour moving from den to den, offering his pickings from that day’s foraging. Malia had been right, with several of the wolves declining. Politely, but with a guarded glint in their eyes. Stiles could not find fault with them, and not only for fear of being a hypocrite. The pack had suffered violence and treachery at the hands of foreign humans. They would not forget it any time soon.

                Claud would need feeding, and Stiles was ready for a rest. He was more grateful to Malia now than he had realized, with the extra load of his satchel weighing on his shoulder as he walked back to the den.

                He listened to the scuffs and scrapes of noises coming from inside. And if he could hear Derek, then surely the opposite was true. His heart flipped in his chest. The same fluttery feeling he had always gotten right before plunging into the ice-cold water of the village river in early spring. He knew the hardest part was making the first move to jump.

                 Derek was crouching on his haunches when he opened the door, stoking the fire with a stick. Two squirrels were lying near the hearth, and his husband’s skin shined with sweat. The tub of water near the door remained untouched from this morning, suggesting that Derek had not yet bathed.  

                “You are home.” The Alpha stood in greeting, his eyes clear and earnest. He said it with such uncertainty that Stiles twinged.  

                “I would have left word with you this morning, but I did not know where to find you.” Stiles made his way towards the table to relieve his burden, the wolf dashing to his side with inhuman speed to remove the satchel from his shoulder.  

                “As long as you remain within the pack territory, you may go wherever you please. You need not feel trapped while you are here.” Derek’s eyes skipped across his face, as if afraid to touch down at any one spot. To look too closely.

                “No, Derek—” Stiles unwound the sling from around his neck and placed Claud in his cradle. It was difficult to be sincere when he was wincing from the cramp forming in his nape. He skirted the edge of the table, fingers dancing nervously across the surface, and moved closer to his husband. “I only want to be useful.” 

                “It looks like you were successful this morning.” Derek tilted his head towards the overflowing satchel.

                Stiles began unloading the contents before any became damaged. He gently removed the bundle of flowers first and laid them across the tabletop.

                “Are those edible?”

                Stiles’ face broke into a grin before he could stop himself. He was unsure whether he had the right to tease Derek anymore. “No. This is blue-eyed grass…I just thought the flowers were pretty.” He rubbed a silky, violet-blue petal between his fingers with delicacy and admired the vibrant yellow at the flowers’ centers.

                “What are you going to do with them?” his husband asked, leaning one hip against the table’s edge.

                “I was going to keep them here, for us.” Stiles patted the middle of the table. “If you do not mind.”

                Derek’s hand twitched against the tabletop, moving closer to his own, until the wolf withdrew altogether and crossed his arms over his chest. The following disappointment Stiles felt was beyond misplaced; it was entirely illogical.  

                “Of course not. This is our home, Stiles. You do not need my permission.”

                Stiles sent him a thankful smile, infused it with as much warmth as he could muster. “Fetch me something to put these in, then?”

                Derek selected a small, clay pot from the bench that sat next to the fireplace and was stacked with bowls and pans and basins. The wolf dipped it into the water tub, filling it halfway before setting the flowers inside. They would do well as a centerpiece, for the sunlight stretched through the window and across the table until early evening.

                “Very pretty,” the wolf agreed, sharing a small smile.

                They sat quite comfortably in silence across from one another, each preparing a portion of their afternoon meal. Stiles filled a bowl with water to wash the dirt from the berries and roots, sampling a few of them as he went. He rolled a berry across the table to Derek, who made a pleased noise after popping it into his mouth. The Alpha seemed to enjoy it much more than the onions.

                “Huckleberries,” Stiles informed.

                Derek skinned the squirrels and dumped the entrails, head, and paws into another bowl. He hung the furs in front of the fire to dry. Stiles was unsure what the wolves did with the pelts of the deer and the other animals they hunted, but he knew they did not go to waste. He supposed that if he could turn into a creature with its own fur coat, he would not toss hides away ungratefully either.

                Claud fed after they finished their own meal, and because Stiles’ top had no ties, he nursed without a shirt as he had done many mornings in his village hut. Out of habit, he bristled during the first few seconds of breastfeeding, knowing that the onlooker was neither family nor a close friend.

                Maybe Derek chose that time to bathe so that they would both be confined to their own senses of privacy. Stiles strode back and forth, his eyes never settling, switching Claud from one nipple to the other.

                He had been avoiding the sight of his husband with such diligence that when his eyes skimmed over the wolf, Derek was already stripped down to his undershorts, squatting next to the metal tub.

                Sunlight bathed the lower half of his husband’s body, his skin gleaming, the bone and muscle in his back shifting as he scrubbed his chest with the same rag Stiles had used that morning. Stiles found himself embarrassingly mesmerized by the thick band of sinew at the back of Derek’s ankles, the smooth soles of his feet.

                He covered himself in his shirt and spread a blanket across the floor, placing Claud on his belly so that the baby could play. Lately, there had not been much time for it with the wedding and the traveling. The infant mostly kicked his arms and legs as if trying to swim, but he occasionally gathered his knees under himself.

                The excitement Stiles felt every time his little boy almost crawled overrode any curiosity about the _plip_ s of water coming from behind him. He cheered as Claud’s stout, little legs wobbled under his own weight, and the infant shrieked in delight after noticing the increasingly animated expressions on his father’s face.

                Eventually, Claud tired and wiggled on his stomach, Stiles mimicking his position and extending his fingers so his son could squeeze and tug them.

                “That is just fine, my lovely,” he cooed, stroking the baby’s ear. “Soon enough, you will be walking.”

                “Soon enough, he will be running. And that is when the mirth truly begins.” Derek had redressed himself in a new shirt and trousers, his hair damp, and sat at the opposite corner of the blanket from him.

                Stiles tensed on instinct and sat up. Compared to the villagers with whom he had grown, known his entire life, Derek was still very much a stranger. A wolf within grabbing distance of his child. The resulting anxiety was impossible to assuage. Stiles’ fingers trembled with the compulsion to pull Claud off of the floor, hold him close, curl around him.

                “Stiles,” his husband murmured. Derek’s eyes and mouth had drooped in sadness, and he turned them down to his lap as if ashamed. “I was not trying to—”

                “Husband,” Stiles interrupted. “Come to me. Please,” he added, outstretching his hand.

                Derek dropped next to him, searching his face for some sign or reason. Slowly, Stiles gathered his husband’s hand in his own and laid a kiss on each knuckle, intertwined their fingers. He slid close to Derek’s side and dropped his head onto the wolf’s shoulder.

                The Alpha’s shock was tangible, housed in the rigid line of his shoulders and the lax grip of his hand. Several stabilizing seconds passed, and Derek leaned into his body, wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, rubbed small circles into the web of flesh between his mate’s thumb and forefinger.

                Stiles exhaled as they watched Claud squirm futilely over his blanket. “Like this,” he breathed.


	7. Chapter 7

**DEREK**

                A change had come over Stiles. The first night here had been challenging, but since then, his mate had adjusted quickly to his new home. More than adjusted. Stiles was thriving amongst the pack. Derek could not fathom why he was surprised, not when his husband was so clever and obstinate and fierce.

                Stiles was making ties to his new packmates. The wolves his age—Malia, Ethan, Liam, Isaac, Jordan—had been the first to accompany him in the mornings, learning how to harvest. Derek would dare to call them his husband’s friends. Satomi joined them shortly after, too wise to be afraid of the unknown, always seeking understanding. The wolves then flooded to the human, trusting in the example of their elder. Stiles took a different group every morning so that none fell behind in their daily chores.

                His mate was tutoring him individually. Derek had his own duties to perform, skirting the territory boundaries for signs of foreigners, gathering water and meat for that day. Perhaps the reasons were not all so official. The Alpha enjoyed the private walks he shared with Stiles and Claud some evenings, when the drooping sun turned everything golden.  

                Much like now, with the light of dawn pooling through the windows of their den. Habitually, he awoke alongside the sun. Stiles was never fazed by it; the warmth kissed his eyelids, but his husband roused on his own terms. The sun had yet to realize that the human, too, was a force of nature.

                Derek rubbed the sleep from his eyes and contemplated the soft, gilded outline of his husband. On his side, his hip rose in a sensual curve, sloping downwards to meet his waist. His hair curled and poked waywardly, boyish, reminding the Alpha how young and sweet his husband was. Stiles’ strength and tenacity made it easy to forget.

                He had only slipped out of the blankets and pulled on his trousers when he heard a muffled cry from the end of the bed. He crouched near the baby’s cradle, watching Claud’s lips smack together and his eyes squint and blink. Derek refrained from touching. Stiles would never know if he did, but the wolf would consider it a betrayal of his mate’s trust. A very fragile, very young trust.

                The infant began to fuss more loudly, thrashing his arms and legs. It would only be a matter of time before the child woke his father, so Derek kneeled on the bed, cupping and thumbing Stiles’ shoulder.

                His husband’s eyelids fluttered, lips a moue of puzzlement. So similar to Claud’s own waking ritual that Derek grinned and felt his belly fill with warmth.

                “Your son is hungry,” Derek murmured, keeping his voice soft so as not to barrage his mate’s stirring senses.     

                “It is a common theme with him, is it not?” Stiles replied throatily, stretching until the covers pulled taut around his limbs. His husband slid out of bed and stepped into his trousers, beckoned by the ever-shriller cries of the baby. “Just a few minutes, chipmunk.”

                Stiles carried the cradle over to one side of the table, where it was easiest to feed the infant. He gave Claud a good-morning kiss before flicking his eyes suspiciously over his shoulder.  

                “Chipmunk?” Derek bit into his lip to contain the rest of his grin. His amusement touched his eyes, and Stiles was not fooled in the least.

                “Because of his round, little face. Like when the squirrels stuff seeds into their cheeks.” His mate’s eyes narrowed teasingly, his lips just beginning to quirk. “Are you laughing at my expense, husband?”

                Moments such as these were the ones of which Derek took stock and tucked into his memory. Fragments. The rosy pink of Stiles’ mating bite, bared in its entirety. Yesterday’s clothes mingling on the chair near their bed. Sunlight bathing the bunch of wild flowers on the table. Stiles always replaced them, never letting a sense of stagnation or decay loiter within their home.

                “No—No. I find it rather endearing.”

                Stiles smiled faintly, something serious lingering in his eyes, and padded close to cup his cheek. “Such a gentle wolf.” His husband’s fingers trailed down his neck, tracing the impressions left behind by his own teeth. “An Alpha nonetheless. You are a rare find, Derek Hale.”

                He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the quality of Stiles’ words. Words that left his mate’s mouth slowly and thickly like the berry syrup he made for their bread. The hand slipped away, but not before giving his own a pulse of pressure, a quick and consoling squeeze.

                “Let me fetch the water.” He took in a deep breath as he finished dressing, turning away from Stiles so he could somewhat collect himself. With a promise to return in a few minutes, he set off, taking a washtub with him.

                Claud had cut his first tooth over a week ago. Stiles had been an absolute treasure to witness that day, bubbling over with smiles and excitement. His husband had already been weaning the boy, boiling vegetables and fruits to mush, sometimes mixing them with oats or wheat to make a mash. Or bread soaked and softened in sugared cow’s milk. The dairy and the grain they received from the city market, in exchange for furs, game, or clothing. 

                When the mother wolves heard Stiles’ firstborn was teething, they flocked to him. Out of empathy, for Stiles was the youngest parent in the pack and the only Carrier. They fussed over the human, making Stiles blush madly, and always complimented the good, strong babe he had made. The women recommended foods for newly weaned infants, what their own pups had enjoyed chewing to soothe their aching gums. Derek was immensely pleased; it was how pack should be.  

* * *

                The Alpha rarely ever fell asleep before his mate. The winding down of Stiles’ body into unconsciousness served as a sort of lullaby. The beats of his heart as they became less frequent, puffs of breath softening, legs dragging against one another underneath the sheets.

                So he knew that his husband spent the last several nights twitching and restless. Understandable. He had sent Peter to the village several days ago to receive word of the humans’ progress regarding the integration proposal. His uncle was not to return until he knew the outcome of the village forum.

                Stiles did not hear the knock at the door in the early morning, having fallen into a heavy sleep only a few hours prior. By scent, Derek knew it was Peter.

                The Alpha closed the door softly behind himself and met his uncle outside where they could talk unencumbered by sleeping denmates.

                “Welcome back.” They clapped one another on the back in a rough hug.

                Before either of them could say anything further, they heard the call from over their shoulders.

                “Father.” Malia loped past the early risers and flung herself into Peter’s waiting arms. He lifted her off of her feet, abandoning his normal practice of selectively dispensed affections. Never with Malia; not with his only pup.        

                “When did you return?” she asked.

                Peter pecked his daughter on the temple and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Only just, my dear. I wanted to give our Alpha the news immediately.” The older beta paused for dramatic flair, and Derek sighed. Some habits ran deep. His uncle’s answering grin was characteristically smug. “The humans approved the integration. Unanimously.”

                “Stiles will be ecstatic. You should wake him,” Malia urged, nudging his arm.

                Derek’s eyes snapped back to his den, to his sleeping husband. “I will. Spread word of a pack meeting tonight.”  

                Father and daughter nodded dutifully before leaving. The Alpha heard the elevated heartbeat, of wakefulness, as he closed the door behind him.

                Stiles was sitting up in bed, sleep-mussed, modeling a refined sort of chaos with the sheet slipping off of his shoulder.

                “It is early,” his mate whispered. “Even for you.”

                He crept to the bed and sat. “Peter returned minutes ago.”

                Stiles took a hand and held it between his own. “And?”

                “The proposal was uncontested. The village approved.” His husband’s grip tightened around his hand, and Stiles curled forward to press his forehead to their joined fingers. Derek heard a wet laugh and felt lips settle against his knuckles.

                His chest and throat seized with infectious emotion, and a chuckle of relief escaped from him. “The pack meeting will be held after supper tonight.”

                “Good.” His husband exhaled and slumped into the covers, eyes going heavy once again now that he had been put at ease. They skipped across his face before Stiles added, “Will you come back to bed? It truly is too early.”

                “Just a few hours,” he conceded, stunned by the request. His mate rarely asked him for anything, and it had often left the wolf part of himself feeling helplessly deficient.

                Stiles pulled the sheets aside, and Derek slid gratefully into the space made for him. He shuffled close enough to feel the heat radiating from his husband’s skin, never pressing quite as close as he yearned.

                But this was enough. His mate sighed, comfortable, lethargic. The Alpha pulled the blankets up to their shoulders. When he reached sleep, he did not dream.  

* * *

                They gathered late in the day, the long summer sun still visible in the sky. Stiles fidgeted at his side, bouncing Claud against his hip. He knew there was no hope of calming his mate. Stiles did not need placating words; he needed results, closure.

                As the Alpha, he was not obligated to consult his betas on pack decisions. But thankfully, conservative Alphas were becoming an archaism. His mother had never abused her position, and neither would he.

                He would do what was in the best interest of the pack, as was his only option. He could not deviate from that responsibility, not even for Stiles. If his wolves ultimately rejected the integration, he would not force them to move.

                Derek crossed his arms and scuffed the tip of his boot through the dirt. He had never relished making speeches or proclamations; he always felt his intentions came across better through his actions. Yet, the requirements of his position.  

                Without any lead-in, he announced, “Peter returned from the village today.” The ambient noise of dozens of overlapping conversations faded and ceased. “Chief Stilinski and his people have approved the integration.” The whistle of low whispers tickled his sensitive ears. “Our pack needs to decide its position on the matter before we set it to rest. Any objections or questions?”

                He scanned the crowd of his friends and family. A pair of red eyes flashed for attention; they could only belong to one person.

                “Satomi,” he called.

                “When would the relocation begin?”

                “The Chief and I imagined it being completed by next summer, with the pack moving in two waves to help the villagers with construction. I need to meet with him again for more precise details.”

                A golden glow from the left side of the pack. “Isaac.”

                “Are any wolves going to be merging households with villagers?” Derek noticed the hopeful edge to Isaac’s voice, how his words halted slightly with embarrassment. He doubted that anyone else understood the beta’s true meaning aside from himself and possibly Stiles.

                At the wedding, Isaac smelled calm and sweet around Stiles’ hunter friend when he was usually clouded by the acrid scent of anxiety. The beta’s father had left an indelible impression upon his son even before being murdered in front of him by savage wolves.

                “As long as the humans permit it, I see no issue…Anyone else?” He surveyed the crowd for further inquiries, and finding none, added, “All those in agreement, show your compliance.”

                Derek tallied the response: out of thirty-four members, he counted one red, twenty-five yellow, seven nonluminous eyes belonging to Stiles and the pups, and himself. He experienced a pleasant tugging in his chest, a sense of satisfaction, but restrained himself. There was still one last thing.

                “Those in opposition?” The pairs of glowing eyes extinguished like snuffed candles, and Derek could no longer staunch the pride radiating from him towards his pack. They might be afraid and uncertain, but they trusted him. “Very well. The integration will proceed. More information next pack meeting. Thank you.”

                The pack dissolved, the wolves returning to their dens or their previous tasks. He turned to Stiles, who was wearing a particular smile. One that he had only ever seen traded between his husband and Scott. It was breathtaking and honest and natural.

                “Could we go home?” Stiles’ arms were swaying, appeasing his son who must have fallen asleep during the meeting.

                “Of course,” he replied somewhat dazedly. He would not be able to recover from that smile any time soon, not with the way it had stamped itself into his mind.

                The passing wolves bade goodnight to him and his husband, some patting their shoulders in their tactile, lupine manner.

                Stiles led the way to their den, depositing Claud in his cradle. The Alpha had hardly stepped inside when his mate strode towards him with such steadfast determination that it almost resembled charging. The human possessed a subtle, wiry strength that was frankly surprising, and the force of their impact made Derek stumble backward a few paces.

                His husband clung to him, hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt, face buried in his neck. The Alpha was dumbfounded by such a grand show of affection, Stiles suddenly so close, his scent blooming and skin warm, body pressed tightly against him. This was the stuff of Derek’s dreams.

                He gathered his mate close, cherished the experience for as long as he was allowed. Fingers curled in the hair at his nape, inducing shivers, and moist breath spilled onto his throat when Stiles turned his head to speak.

                “You did it,” the human gushed, his voice strained with feeling.

                “The pack made the decision.” Derek stumbled over those few words, bewildered, his mouth dry.              

                Stiles stared at him, his eyes sparkling. “It was your idea. My father told me. It is part of the reason he accepted your offer in the first place.” Fingertips touched his jaw, and it became difficult to swallow, to breathe. An irrational fear latched onto the wolf, such that he feared the slightest movement might fracture their current, precarious state. Stiles was always barely, maddeningly beyond his grasp, slipping through his fingers, elusive like tendrils of smoke.

                “You kept your word. Thank you.” His husband kissed his cheek, stirring up memories of the first and only time he had tasted those lips. Stiles’ head dropped onto his shoulder. “I hope you do not think me ungrateful. The last month here has been pleasant. And good for us. It is only that I miss my village.”

                “I know,” he murmured, combing through the back of Stiles’ hair simply because he could. His mate had made no protest. In fact, the human was still clutched around him.

                “Will you miss it here? Your home?”

                He smiled, peering over Stiles’ head to the cradle near their bed. “No. This is not my home. Home is wherever pack is. Wherever family is.”


	8. Chapter 8

**STILES**

                Four of them were making the trip to the village. Derek obviously needed to be present to decide the details of the integration with the Chief. Peter would provide necessary counsel. Malia was supplementary protection for himself and Claud. They had not yet encountered any trouble in the woods, but Derek was never willing to accept risk that could be preempted. Not when it involved his pack.

                They ate breakfast before leaving. Satomi and a few other wakened wolves extended hopes of safe travel before returning to morning chores. The elder wolf would lead and guard the pack in Derek’s absence.

                As they crackled through dead understory, the wolves formed a “V” around Stiles, moving with a flawless coordination that had either been meticulously planned or instinctually provoked. Protecting the weak parts of the pack as they had with the young pups on the return trip after the wedding.   

                Peter was the anterior point of the lupine triangle, Derek and Malia behind him and to either side of Stiles. The human appreciated the guardianship, both for his son and his own person, but he was not completely helpless. He did not tell any of the wolves about the dagger he kept sheathed inside of his right boot. The weapon caressed the lateral bone of his ankle with every step.  

                Lydia had sewn a pocket inside the boot of all the trained fighters in the village, accommodating the various sizes and shapes of their preferred hand weapons. For instance, the Yukimuras carried _shaken_ and _kunai_ in their boots. Stiles’ boot held a pouch slightly larger than his scabbard so that he would not cut himself on the withdrawal. The dagger’s handle sat just barely underneath the top of his boot for easy access. Lydia was brilliant.   

                While his father expected Peter and Derek to return, pending the pack’s approval of the integration, he would not be anticipating Stiles or his grandson. For once, the surprise would be a joyous one.

                Once they had broken through the uninhabited stretch of forest, reaching the river, Stiles was able to lead them to the Chief’s hut. The wolves could have followed the appropriate scent trail, but this way was politer.

                They passed many villagers on the way to his father’s hut. Some smiled, some waved, but none approached. The cluster of wolves alongside him suggested business rather than a personal visit. Undoubtedly, the word of their arrival would spread like wildfire through the populace, and his loved ones would know he was here.

                Stiles hoisted Claud higher onto one hip and then knocked with his free hand. Inside, his father called that he was coming. His voice alone made Stiles break into a smile. At that moment, his chest was tight and his heart full of hope for the future.

                The Chief opened the door, his eyes roaming over the group on his doorstep before landing on Stiles. His lip trembled only once before his mouth pursed into a straight line, and then he pulled Stiles into a firm embrace.

                “Hello, father.” He laughed and wrapped his arm around his parent’s neck.

                “Just look at him,” the Chief remarked, sounding teary but gruff. “It has only been a month, and he has grown so much. And look at you. My boys.”

                Stiles passed his son. Claud giggled from all the kisses his grandfather bestowed upon him and shrieked.

                “He is teething. Should be crawling very soon.” The Chief’s features became pinched as he tried to hide his beaming grin. He sniffed with an undeniable pride, as if his grandson were the only one to ever teethe or crawl. Stiles supposed it was a grandparent’s duty.   

                Suddenly, his father seemed to remember that this family reunion was not an exclusive one. His eyes flicked over to the wolves behind his son. “Forgive me. Derek, Peter, welcome.” He squeezed his son-in-law’s shoulder, and Derek reciprocated.

                “Perfectly understandable, Chief Stilinski. After time apart, there is little that can distract me from seeing my child either,” Peter assured.

                His father’s gaze slid from Peter to the beta’s daughter. “Welcome, Malia.” The she-wolf did a small curtsy, spreading her long skirts and giving a small smile. “There was not time enough for us to meet at the wedding, but your father has spoken of you on several occasions.”

                Malia cast a sour expression towards her father, and Peter chuckled. “Come now. If I cannot boast about my child, about what can I boast?”

                “Very true,” the Chief agreed. He cupped the back of Stiles’ head warmly and then moved aside to open the door wider. “Everyone, come inside. Lots to discuss.”

                His father laid out food and drink for the five of them. Stiles placed a swaddled Claud in the cradle he left behind and joined his father to help set the table. The Chief shook his head, gently pulling the bowls from his son’s hands, giving him a consoling smile.

                This was Stiles’ hut no longer. He neither owned it nor shared it. He was a guest now. From this day onwards, the nights he spent in the village would be in a hut of his own, with his husband and child.

                He sat next to Derek, Malia on his left, Peter across from him. His father pulled a stool to the table for himself, as all the proper chairs were taken. The Chief was a good man, humble and honorable and kind. Stiles loved him dearly.

                They picked at the food, a light meal in the early evening before that night’s supper. Stiles pressed his lips together, stifling a laugh, as Malia fingered all of her food, searching for some meat. There were only berries and roots and roasted walnuts.

                She kept her sigh of disappointment quiet enough so that Stiles, who sat next to her, was the only human to hear it. The wolf settled for a handful of walnuts, crunching them with her neglected canines.

                The Chief announced, “I would not presume to know the interests of your pack, so I will ask the outcome of your meeting.” He took a drink from his cup but kept his attention on Derek.

                The Alpha’s eyes jumped to the table, the edges of his mouth curling into a faint smile. Stiles had come to recognize the occasions when Derek was truly pleased, like now. He turned bashful and private, unable to display his happiness directly. His cheeks tended to blush a fine pink, and his downcast eyelashes always appeared luxurious and thick. It was unavoidably beautiful. 

                “The same as your forum, I am glad to say. Undisputed.”

                His father did not release a pent-up exhale of relief, nor did he smile nor laugh. He was not thinking as a father right now but as a Chief. Instead, he nodded and placed his palms on the soft grain of the tabletop.

                “That is wonderful news. Are we adhering to the original schedule?”

                Derek replied, “That was my intention. If all is successful, the integration should be complete by next summer.”

                “Very well. We previously discussed bringing groups to the village in succession. I think that is still the best course of action until we have enough available homes for the entire pack.”

                His father rose to stoke the fire and add another log. He grunted, his words straining as he rose from his crouch with stiff joints. “There seemed no point in filling all of the cleared huts again after the wedding. We stocked six with stores for the winter and general supplies. Customarily, we leave two huts empty for passersby or messengers of interest. That leaves four huts for pack members.”

                Peter closed his eyes and tapped his finger against the tabletop, his forehead creasing with concentration. “By my calculations, we would need eight more to accommodate the rest of the wolves. One for Malia and myself, for the orphaned wolves,” Stiles knew those to be Isaac, Ethan, Jordan, and Liam, “Satomi, our Alpha and your son, the remaining blood families, and our emissary, Deaton.”

                Peter cast a glance at Derek, either to ensure he had forgotten no one or to receive his Alpha’s approval for the living arrangements. In either case, Derek tipped his head towards his uncle.

                His father remained silent for several moments, his brow furrowed. “We would need several months. To harvest and cut the timber. And then for construction. We only have a dozen builders, skilled as they are, and we will surely face some constraints from the weather.”

                Derek and the Chief had both pushed their bowls towards the center of the table practically upon sitting down. The food was a show of hospitality, and what was left uneaten would be served again for supper. Peter plucked a berry from his bowl occasionally, but even his attention was held by the discussion. These integration talks would hugely impact the functioning of both respective communities in the present and the future.

                Meanwhile, Stiles and Malia officially had no say in the current negotiations, being neither rulers nor advisors. Anything controversial would go before the people and the wolves, but until then, the two of them did not have permission to participate.

                These circumstances left Malia free to consume most of her food (except the green roots) and move on to Stiles’ walnuts. He had surreptitiously nudged his bowl closer to her during the ongoing conversation, earning him a wink and one of the wolf’s special half-smiles.

                “We have several volunteers who are willing to move at any time. Those without young pups, as well as the adolescents and young adults. In exchange for their assistance, they only request first selection of the finished huts.” Derek was leaning forward with both elbows on the table. His posture was not one of desperation, but of excitement, of eagerness. He was eager to make this arrangement work, to strive for something he believed would improve everyone’s quality of living. This integration went far beyond fulfilling a sense of spousal duty or self-interest. 

                Stiles recalled something Derek had told him on only their second meeting. The Alpha wanted to _make a life_ with him. He was planning for the future, endeavoring to bring long-term changes to the pack and the village.  

                A wave of affection choked Stiles. It was a terrifying temptation, to let himself rely unconditionally on someone who was not his family. One voice whispered in his head that it was dangerous, that he should know better, and the other chided him for taking so long to accept his husband’s noble intentions. Derek had spoken of his ideals and goals, but now, his actions were transforming those pretty words into a reality.

                Maybe his scent changed or his heart hammered or some other bodily sign gave him away. Malia kicked his shin under the table just as Derek’s head turned infinitesimally in his direction.

                “Fair enough.” The Chief spoke with a finality that suggested the topic had been deliberated to its most useful extent. “Now, what about your healer?”

                The Alpha explained, “Alan is more than willing to combine his expertise with Melissa’s. In the event that one healer becomes overwhelmed with patients, the other should be able to assist in caring for both humans and wolves.”

                “Agreed. Melissa, Scott, and your emissary should train one another for at least a few weeks. Inventory their medicinal supplies and share their practices. We should keep the healers centralized and move Alan into the hut next to Melissa’s.” His father lifted his dark-blond brows, asking for either input or opposition.

                “The owner will not mind vacating?” Peter inquired.

                “I will speak to Chris, but I do not foresee any resistance from him. He is a practical man. He is also the only villager with a private hut, something that needs to be remedied anyway.”

                There was no formal village rule that stated at least two people must share a hut. The households just naturally consisted of more than one person. Chris used to have the most crowded home, with five people in total, but the deaths in his family had been swiftly followed by the village’s first alliance with the wolves. The issue had lost priority over the last year, but resources were being allocated to one that could be shared by several. The villagers were anything but wasteful.   

                It was perfectly obvious to Stiles that Chris and Isaac should share a hut, but he was not the village matchmaker, and it was not his place to interfere. Isaac was one of the volunteer builders, and Chris would be moving anyway…it just seemed like a neat resolution of loose ends.  

                As long as Chris and Isaac both agreed to cohabitation, his father would not dispute it. The more mixed households, the better. That was the entire point of all of this, was it not?

                They talked until supper, which they also shared together. Malia dumped her yet untouched roots into Stiles’ bowl but seemed quite pleased with the grouse from that morning’s hunt. Stiles made a fruit mash for Claud’s final feeding that night. The conversation throughout dinner was light and cheerful and strayed from all matters of business. His father shared news from around the village, and Peter mentioned fascinating or novel items he saw on his last visit to the city market.

                The particulars of the integration were countless, and even after several hours of addressing them, many would remain unthought and unmentioned. Inevitably, the rest would have to be handled as they arose. There were too many moving pieces in the integration for every contingency to be recognized and considered. Still, his husband and father conceded to resume negotiations tomorrow.

                They left the Chief’s hut long after sunset. While Stiles desperately wanted to see his friends, they would already be asleep in order to rise early. Stiles had not even endured a particularly grueling day, but he was tired as well. He towed his sleeping boy in the cradle to one of the vacant huts. He and Derek wished Peter and Malia a goodnight before parting.  

                They would remain in the village for one more day and would leave the second morning. Now that Derek and his father had a more defined timeline and plan of action, they could actually begin the early stages of integration. The quicker they could consolidate, the better for all of them. They did not want a half or a third of their numbers separated for longer than necessary, and not just because it was dangerous and draining on resources.

                Stiles knew that the Alpha was never truly at ease when separated from his pack. He did not need supernatural senses to notice. From what several wolves had tried to describe to him, the connection between packmates was different from the bond between friends or even family. It was visceral and sensory, almost physical and tangible. Stiles considered the underlying, unrelenting anxiety he felt while away from his loved ones. That nagging worry that crept up from the corners of his mind was inescapable; it was inextricably tangled with the decision—the will—to love someone.

                As a human, perhaps the closest he could come to that same intensity of connection was with Claud. He made him; he was wholly responsible for him. The thought of being severed from his child, not knowing if his baby was safe or needed him—the thought of not being there to help Claud if he _was_ needed. He shuddered all over.   

                Stiles crawled into a bed with cold, crisp blankets, his husband tucked in close behind him. He wondered if Derek felt a similar urgency and lurking panic every time he left his pack. Most of the wolves were grown, with claws and fangs and preternatural strength. But what about the pups, the ones who had only just begun to shift or had not yet at all? What about the betas Derek had created with his own bite? He gave them a kind of life. Was he not their father?

                Stiles laced the Alpha’s fingers with his own and bent his neck so that he could feel warm breath bathe his nape. He pondered the deepness of the bond between an Alpha and its child. Pack and family and mate all in one vessel. How fiercely would an Alpha love such a child?

* * *

                Stiles hoped to join in the morning harvest. He missed Chris and Kira, and it would be nice to indulge in a familiar pastime.

                The sun was just peeking over the horizon. The hunter-gatherers would not meet until after the first hour of sunrise. He had time yet.

                Derek had gone to the river already. The Alpha was brewing mint tea in a small pot over the fire, the heat carrying the fragrance of the boiling leaves throughout the hut. The Alpha added two pinches of sugar to the water, stirred, and then replaced the lid.

                They had no food save for the dried goods leftover from yesterday’s journey. Stiles had a wrapping of oats in his satchel that he could mix with the tea to feed Claud. The cooled mint would soothe the baby’s gums.

                Stiles yawned and stretched, shivering in the morning chill that seeped through the bedroom window. Covered in nothing but his undershorts, he dressed in a long shirt that fell to his mid-thigh. The hot tea would be nice, even if it was still too early for breakfast.

                “Good morning, Stiles.” Derek smiled warmly and sat down at the table.

                “Good morning. I hope you did not go to too much trouble.” He cocked his head towards the tea pot and settled in the chair across from his husband’s.

                “Not at all. The mint was practically growing behind the hut. It is easy to trace by scent.”

                Stiles reached across the table and brushed his fingers over the back of the Alpha’s hand. “Thank you for your efforts nonetheless.”

                When the pot hissed with steam, Stiles shooed the wolf back to his seat and ladled out two cups of tea. The brew warmed him from the inside, slightly sweet and refreshing.

                Stiles cradled his cup to heat his hands, nursing his pale tea and chewing his lip in indecision. They were enjoying such a comfortable silence that it seemed a shame for him to speak and disturb the quiet.

                “I planned on seeing a few people today, before we leave.” He tapped his fingers against the side of his cup.

                “By all means, you should see your friends.”

                “I was going to join the harvesters this morning, maybe visit Scott and Lydia afterwards. I would be back by supper at the latest.”

                The Alpha watched his fidgeting fingers, now drumming against the table, with slight amusement. The faint laughter was audible in his husband’s voice, but it was paired with sincerity. “You may spend your time however you like, Stiles. You do not need my permission.”

                “I was not—” Stiles sighed in minor frustration and swallowed a generous gulp of tea, scalding his tongue. He blinked through his watering eyes and tried again. “I was informing you because I would like to ask a favor.”

                Derek set down his cup, his forehead creasing. “What can I do?” It did not go unnoticed by Stiles that his husband surrendered his complete attention in an instant. The Alpha’s body tensed in preparation, as if compelled to act the moment Stiles shared his need.  

                “I would be gone for several hours…” Stiles repeated feebly. He took a deep breath and then looked straight into his husband’s eyes. Derek deserved that much at least. “Would you watch Claud for me?”

                Stiles no longer felt any chill, flushing hotly, his breathing turning unsteady and shallow. It should have been a simple request, one that did not bear any special treatment. But it was not simple, not for him. Derek had proven yesterday his investment in the village, in his marriage. It was time for Stiles to start planning for their future as well.

                The Alpha rose wordlessly and walked around the table, and Stiles was helpless but to watch him. Derek dropped to a crouch between his legs and clasped his fingers, placing a solid kiss on the back of each hand. An anxious laugh bubbled out of Stiles, and he sobbed halfway through it, tears sliding from the corners of his eyes. He was overwhelmed at the moment, relieved and anxious.

                Stiles slipped off the edge of his chair and dropped into his husband’s lap, circling his arms around the Alpha’s neck, holding him tightly. Strong arms wrapped around him in return.

                “I want him to know you,” Stiles whispered wetly, his chin propped on the wolf’s shoulder.

                “I would raise him as my own,” Derek promised. “You must know that.”

                A faint whine escaped from Claud’s cradle, and the infant began to fuss. Stiles sat back in Derek’s lap.  

                “Perfect timing,” he murmured. His husband smiled softly and wiped the tears from Stiles’ cheeks with a swipe of his thumbs. “Do you want to feed him?”

                The Alpha breathed, “Yes.”

                Stiles stood and dragged a hand through his hair, still feeling overly warm and out of place. This new step they had taken left Stiles uncertain of what to do and how to feel. However, he could not claim it was a horrible state within which to find oneself. He felt lighter, although somewhat untethered by the small amount of control he had relinquished. He felt purged.

                Derek leaned over the cradle, his arms snaking underneath Claud’s head and bottom to place the babe securely against his chest.

                Stiles leaned against the table, staying back while his son and husband met properly for the first time. The baby stopped his noises of discontent the moment Derek held him, his attention entirely devoted to this new experience, this virtual stranger. Claud reached upwards with his tiny, wiggling fingers and patted the bristly growth of Derek’s beard.

                Stiles had always been clean-shaven, excluding the few times he sported day-old stubble out of laziness. The same with Scott and Stiles’ father. Therefore, Derek’s facial hair warranted further exploration from Claud, and the child tugged somewhat mercilessly at his stepfather’s beard.

                The Alpha winced, and Stiles snorted, covering his mouth with his hand. Derek grinned over his shoulder, the mobility of his head restricted by the little fist still curled in his beard. The wolf coaxed Claud’s hand away, and in appeasement, offered the linen of his shirt for the baby to grasp. It was fortunate that Derek was wearing a shirt at all this morning because his chest hair would be the next item of interest.

                “May I scent-mark him?” Derek asked quietly, casting a flickering, hesitant glance in Stiles’ direction.  

                Stiles’ palm was still hiding his mouth. An unstoppable smile bloomed across his lips, and he nodded. 

                Gently, the Alpha rubbed the side of his cheek against Claud’s, _nuzzling_ , and repeated the motion for the other cheek. The light scratching of Derek’s beard against Claud’s fine skin must have tickled, for his son giggled and shrilled enthusiastically. Derek finished by bringing their faces close together and bumping noses. The infant laughed more brightly, and as thanks, spit down the front of the Alpha’s shirt.

                Stiles went to search for a rag in his satchel, but his husband stopped him. “Leave it. I cannot imagine this shirt will fare any better after breakfast.”

                “That is a safe assessment.”

                “Do you need to leave soon to catch your friends?”

                Stiles looked down at himself, only half-clothed. “Uh. Yes, I should—Clothing. Um, breakfast for Claud. I have oats in my bag. You could make a mash with the tea for him.”

                Derek listened patiently, bouncing Claud against his front with a hand placed against the baby’s back. His husband was a natural, which was both distracting and bewildering at the same time. Stiles attributed the trait to an innate paternal instinct or prior experience with pups in the pack. He felt a little reassured by it. In fact, Stiles really could not look upon the wolf and his child without feeling unpreparedly moved. They were very sweet together.

                Stiles dressed while Derek fixed the baby’s breakfast. The Alpha mumbled to Claud while he worked, too quietly for Stiles to hear.

                “I just want to say goodbye to him, before I leave.” Stiles leaned in close to the pair, allowing Derek to continue to hold the baby. He cupped the back of his son’s head, combing through the downy hair. Perhaps lavished a few dozen kisses on Claud’s cheeks and forehead and hands.

                After several minutes of Stiles _not_ leaving, Derek insisted, “I will not let anything happen to him. Nothing.”

                Stiles looked at his husband somewhat guiltily. “Oh, Derek, I do not doubt you. It is just…hard to let go.” His mouth crumpled with lovesickness when Claud gave him his best toothy grin. Three little white ridges rose from the boy’s fleshy, pink bottom gum.  

                “I know,” the wolf assured. “I will be meeting your father after breakfast and will likely be there until you get back anyway. He will be in safe and familiar hands.”

                Stiles exhaled and nodded. He ducked forward, this time to place a kiss to the corner of his husband’s mouth.  


	9. Chapter 9

**STILES**

                Stiles tracked down Chris first. The forest behind the village was divided among the harvesters. Each hunter-gatherer took a sect of land, and Chris’ was the one westernmost, beginning at one edge of the village.

                Catching game inspired one to move lightly and quietly. Stiles tread over a bent twig, forcing it to snap under the sole of his boot. Chris showed himself, spinning out from behind a nearby tree, his bow strung with an arrow that was poised at Stiles’ head.

                Stiles grinned. Chris chuckled and relaxed his bowstring, dropping the weapon down to his side.

                “Did you take me for a wandering deer?”

                “Only around the eyes,” Chris answered, pulling him into a hug. “I assume this is just a visit.”

                Stiles squinted against the sunlight. “For now, yes.”

                “How is life amongst the wolves?” Chris stopped to gather at a patch of wild grass. He pulled a knife from his boot, single-edged, seductively sharp. He wound his hand around a handful of grass stems and then sliced cleanly through the bottoms with a single cleave of the blade. The harvesters always left the roots if they could. After a few rains, the plants would replenish themselves.

                “Different and yet the same. I have made acquaintances and friends. Peter and his daughter, Malia. Jordan, Ethan, a beta younger than myself named Liam…Isaac. A quintessential sweetheart, that one.” Stiles side-eyed his friend, only to find Chris staring resolutely ahead as they walked.

                The hunter’s sigh spoke of forbearance. Stiles added, “With the integration now supported on both sides, we can start rebuilding and expanding. Either this week or the next, the first group of wolves will be coming to help.”

                Chris came to an abrupt halt, reaching out to touch his elbow. “Stiles.” The question was unspoken but obvious.

                The older man’s eyes darted across his face with anticipation. Silver streaked the sides of his cropped hair and the chin of his beard. If anything, it enhanced the blue-gray iciness of his eyes. His wrinkles were well-earned, etched artfully into his skin and accentuating his features. Stiles thought his look was quite handsome and rugged.

                He covered Chris’ hand with his own. “Life has been difficult for you the last few years, my friend. I believe it is about to become easier.”

* * *

                Kira covered one of the medial harvesting sects. If Stiles walked straight out the back door of his father’s hut into the forest, he would stumble into her territory. Finding it after crossing eastwards through several other sects was more difficult, but Stiles used a few specific landmarks to orient himself.

                He followed the trail of her snares. The ones she had already visited that morning were disabled, to be reset on the way home after that morning’s work hours had ended.

                Stiles stopped and listened for a few moments. He whistled a brief, three-note tune, repeating it a few times. After several seconds, he heard the tune sung back to him. Kira had been a musical child, gifted with a clear, high voice. Noshiko always joked that the birds in the forest adjusted their melodies so they could sing along with her daughter.

                At the age of ten, all the children were assigned a mentor to teach them their village duty. Stiles’ guide had been Chris while Kira had been paired with Chris’ sister, Kate. It was during that time Kira had devised the distinct whistle so that she and Stiles could find one another in the woods.

                He and Kira whistled the tune back and forth, following the resonance. Stiles broke into a sprint when he caught sight of his friend passing through some low-hanging tree branches yards away.

                She launched into his arms, and Stiles might have stumbled backwards if Kira was not gripping him so firmly.

                “Scott told me you arrived yesterday, but I knew you had business with your father.”

                “Not I. My husband has business with my father, Alpha to Chief. I am merely accompanying him so that I can see my dear friends.” Stiles smiled. “Should we return?” He pointed back to the direction from which Kira just came. “I do not want to interfere with your day’s haul.”

                “No fear, you can carry my squirrels and rabbits.” She knocked their elbows together playfully.

                “So. Two months until your wedding. Are you excited?”

                “Yes.” Kira’s voice squeaked with enthusiasm. She was naturally shy and mild, even more so around strangers, but the forest had a way of bringing out the wildness in everyone. “You know Scott will ask you to be godfather to our children.”

                “Your—Are you already—?”

                “No, no,” Kira laughed, a delicate sound, like the tinkling of small bells. The grin soon faded into a bittersweet smile, and she squeezed Stiles’ hand.

                He appreciated the sensitivity—all his loved ones knew the topic was a prickly one—but he could not let her dampen her own excitement for his benefit. She and Scott deserved every bit of happiness life could offer them.

                “It would be a privilege,” he stated, kissing Kira’s cheek. “I hope the gods bless you with a multitude of children. That our babes may grow up together.”   

                “You will be back for the ceremony? Scott needs his brother there. _I_ need you there. My whole family.” Kira paused and knelt, collecting a second rabbit from a trap. She tied the back feet with twine, the length of the string connected to the back feet of the first rabbit, and handed the catch to Stiles.

                He added the weight of the rabbits to the pair of squirrels already strung and hanging from his shoulder. “Absolutely, I will be there. With the entire family.”

* * *

                Stiles did not make it to the Martins’ hut until after lunch. Kira had convinced him to share a meal with the Yukimuras rather than spend it alone in the guest hut.

                All the Martin women were home when he knocked. Lorraine and Lydia were two of several seamsters and seamstresses, responsible for mending and making any commissioned clothes for the villagers. Whether they be birth-day gifts, clothes and blankets for newborns, or capes for the colder months. To lighten the burden on the needleworkers, the villagers handed clothes down through siblings or passed them from one family to another.  

                Lorraine was stitching what appeared to be a knitted hat when Natalie had pulled him inside. Their hut always smelled of wild lavender and the faint acridity of freshly dyed cloth. The moment Natalie released him, Lorraine surged forward to place a kiss on each cheek and look him over with an approving smile. Both of his parents’ parents had passed before he was born or soon after, and he had no memory of them save the stories his father and mother used to tell.

                Stiles had known Lorraine as Grandmother like many of the other village children. She was the elder of the village, as Satomi was of the pack, and had blessed every infant born or dwelling within the village.

                He remembered Claud’s Blessing. Lorraine had worn her green dress robes reserved for Blessings—for growth and youth and fresh life. She saved the white ones for conducting weddings and the black for funerals.

                Claud had been swathed in a pale green shift, only three days old. Before the entire village, the priestess had drawn a single line down the baby’s forehead to signify he was a first-born. Marjoram, lilac, and baby’s-breath, all ground in oil with a mortar and pestle, applied as a thin paste. The blend of herbs and flowers encouraged happiness, youthful joy, and innocence. The villagers spoke his given name in unison, and the infant was welcomed into the community.  

                Today, Lorraine wore simple linens and was no more than a seamstress. Her granddaughter strode out from the bedroom, hands on her hips, a wry grin occupying her full lips. “About time you came. I have been waiting near a half day.”

                Stiles laughed and gathered her into a tight embrace, almost lifting her from her feet. “Forgive me, my lady.”

                Lydia took his hand and led him out back to the dying bench. She did not let it go once they sat.

                “Well, your husband has done it. You will be returned to us in a few months.”

                “Hopefully. We must remain there until the last of the pack has moved. Satomi will be coming with the first group of wolves. She will look over those here until Derek comes.” Stiles was only realizing now that his closest friends in the pack would be leaving for the village nearly as soon as he and Derek returned. An internal ache overtook him, and he supposed it was a good sign. He would miss them.  

                Lydia nodded and cast a shrewd glance out towards the edge of the forest. Her lips were pursed in thought. “If you came to me this late, I assume you went on the morning harvest.”

                “I did. I saw Chris and Kira already.”

                “And yet, you did not drop your son off at my house before you left.” Lydia raised one reddish eyebrow. In conversation, Lydia’s expression only became expectant when she was waiting for an answer she already knew. Her questioning countenance was a mere courtesy, a warning that one had better not try to deceive her.

                “He is with my father…” Lydia only had to raise her perfectly groomed brow a fraction of an inch higher to make the ensemble of her features severe, “…but I left him with Derek this morning.”

                Instantaneously, the seamstress’ hardened, unforgiving mask shattered, leaving behind a dazzling smile. Any stranger would have thought her as amiable and harmless as a milkmaid in that moment. Lydia was terrifying.

                She rested her head on Stiles’ shoulder, her arm wound lightly around his own, and Stiles pressed his cheek to her silky, fragrant hair. “I am proud of you, darling,” she murmured into the warm afternoon air.

* * *

                Stiles did not need to knock to enter Scott’s hut. Ever since he could remember, Melissa had demanded that Stiles come and go as he pleased, as long as he used the back door in case she was tending to people in the front room.

                He cracked the door a few inches and heard voices. Familiar voices. Stiles leaned his forehead against the door for several seconds and then pushed it open the rest of the way.

                “Honey, make sure you throw those dirty linens in the—My _gods_.”

                “Is something wrong?” Scott called. He turned around, a basket of used linens in his hands. The healers changed table cloths after each patient and left the soiled ones outside the back door until they could be cleaned.

                Scott dropped the basket to the floor when he saw him.

                “Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said cheerily.  

                “ _Scott_. We need to clean up first,” Melissa ordered brusquely, a tone that reminded her son she was the Mistress Healer and he her apprentice.

                “Sorry, mother.”

                “We are only human, sweetheart.” Her voice softened, and she smiled sympathetically at Scott. “But we never take chances, do we?”

                Scott gathered the basket back into his arms. “No, mother.”

                “Let us finish up that way Stiles can enter a clean home.” Stiles waited by the door so that he would not get in their way. Scott deposited the basket alongside the two stone steps leading to the back door while Melissa wiped down the long table that patients laid upon with boiled water and lye.

                Melissa washed her arms up to the elbow, tugged off her apron, and then opened her arms for Stiles with a radiant smile.

                “I missed you, my boy.” She spoke against his neck, a few inches shorter than him. Melissa leaned back, her eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears. She brushed her hand down one side of his face and patted his cheek.

                Scott filled the empty space his mother left. “The river?” he suggested.

                “The river,” Stiles confirmed, nodding.

                They sat on the bank, in the same place they always did. It was almost easy to forget that things had changed, that he had a husband waiting for him and a larger family now.

                “How are you? Truly?” Scott asked.

                Stiles smiled as he looked out over the water. Soon, it would be decorated with fallen leaves. “Better than I thought I would be, honestly.”

                “I saw Derek on his way to your father’s this morning. With Claud.”

                They were skipping smooth, flat stones across the river. Stiles had gotten a few decent hops, but Scott had always been better at it. “I trust him to keep us safe. And Derek is so different from…”

                “From _him._ Well, that is a start,” Scott commented, watching him with care.

                “I do not love my husband,” Stiles stated softly. “But I think I could.”

* * *

                He and Scott stayed at the riverbank for the sunset, as they always used to. He accompanied Scott home and stopped by his father’s hut to see whether Derek was still there.

                He was. Malia probably did not attend after being hopelessly bored yesterday, and Peter must have just left, for he was not there either.  

                The Chief saw him poking his head around the door and waved him inside. “Stiles, we were just finishing for the night.”

                Derek’s eyes found him, bright from the smile on his face. Claud was squirming against the Alpha’s abdomen, trying to turn onto his stomach and climb. Derek let the baby move as he pleased and then gathered him against his broad chest.

                “Would you like to hold him?” His husband stood and brought the boy over to him. The Chief unloaded food for supper from baskets that contained a household’s daily rations. Derek must have brought their own basket over after the harvesters divided the yield this morning. His father only received enough food for one person now that he lived alone.  

                “Yes.” Stiles grinned as Claud recognized him, beating his little fists ineffectually against Stiles’ chest. “Hello, chipmunk. Did you behave for Derek and your grandfather?” He rubbed the baby’s back and pecked kisses all over his face.

                “He was perfect,” Derek assured softly.

                After dinner, they returned to their temporary home. Stiles was not quite ready to let go of Claud. He was unused to being away from his son for so long.

                He stripped down to his shorts for the night and settled in bed with his baby lying across his chest, his fleshy cheek pressed against Stiles’ breastbone while he dozed. Derek slid between the sheets with a seemingly impossible grace for someone of his size and bulk. A recurring observation from Stiles. The Alpha was much gentler and unobtrusive than one would guess from appearance alone.

                “Seeing the two of you together made me think,” Stiles murmured. He flicked his eyes in Derek’s direction. The wolf was lying on his side, one hand keeping his head propped. His face was rather pensive.

                “About what?”

                “Claud is such a large part of me, and I do not even know whether he is a human or a wolf. It is strange that I birthed him, that I share my blood and my heart with him, and I still do not know.”

                “Are you worried he will be? A wolf, that is.”

                Stiles smiled faintly and looked at his husband. “I would not keep marrying wolves if I thought them any lesser than humans.”

                Derek huffed a laugh and nodded.

                When Stiles spoke again, his voice was sincere, more serious. “Mostly, I was thinking that if he is a wolf, I am glad you are here. He would need you. There would be things I am unable to teach him.”

                “And if he is a human?” Derek questioned.

                “Then I shall be glad you are here anyways.” Stiles kept his eyes on the ceiling. He allowed himself that small weakness considering the progress he had made today.  

                “My father was human. The only one in the pack,” the Alpha admitted. “All of his children were wolves, myself and my two sisters, and it never mattered to us what he was. He was just our father.”

                Stiles was too shocked to reply. The information itself was surprising. Talia Hale had been a powerful and prominent Alpha in the region; not much had ever been mentioned about the Hale father. It was assumed he was a common beta. Yet, Stiles was most stunned that Derek had mentioned lost family. Stiles understood just how painful that could be, and he knew it had not been done casually.

                “What is his name?”

                “Samuel.”

                Stiles cleared his throat and blinked several times. “My mother’s name is Claudia.” He paused, feeling suddenly breathless, swallowing against the tightness in his chest and throat. “Fever took her when I was ten.”

                “I imagine she would be honored that your son bears her namesake.” Derek’s thumb caressed the back of his hand lazily.

                Stiles laced their fingers together, his other hand rising and falling with Claud’s fragile breaths. “I would like to think so.”


	10. Chapter 10

**DEREK**

They were supposed to be gathering food for the celebration tonight.

                He hunted while Stiles plucked mushrooms and plant edibles. Thanks to his husband, the other wolves were now at least proficient at gathering common roots, leaves, seeds, and berries. Anything questionable was brought to Stiles for inspection. The pack was less reliant on meat, which would prove useful for seasons where game was scant. Moreover, it fortified the trust that the wolves placed in Stiles. As Alpha-mate, he was meant to be their protector as well.

                On special occasions such as tonight, the pack labored as a whole to make preparations. Pack-brothers and -sisters procured food, fetched water, gathered kindling. Volunteers were leaving for the village on the morrow, and the pack would not be whole for the next several months.

                It would be a bittersweet departure: temporary ends but new beginnings. He would not be alone in his heartsickness. The pack had never been divided for longer than a week. The wolves had either been born alongside one another, grew with one another, or had been inseparable from latecomers inducted into the pack. A hollowness, a sense of incompletion, would linger within each wolf until the pack was reunited.

                It was like going through the world with one eye and one ear covered. A feeling himself and many of the older wolves remembered with the death of their previous Alpha, of her daughter and her mate. No pain cut deeper than the loss of a pack member.

                Having Claud would relieve some of his own heartache. Derek fed and changed him, bathed and played with him. He swelled with warm fulfillment when he cared for the babe, although he only did so with Stiles’ permission. He appreciated his mate’s efforts to be more open with him and the pack, and he did not want to take too much, too soon.

                Still, when they returned from the village, he had suggested that Stiles leave Claud with Deaton in the mornings. In the end, logic turned the tide of persuasion. It was safer for Claud, who would be surrounded by the bulk of the pack and left with the competencies of a healer. Stiles would benefit in that he would not have to balance the weight of his son and his catch as he lumbered through the woods.

                Stiles agreed without any outright objection but remained tense and quiet the first few days until he had retrieved his baby. Alan was compassionate and good at what he did, but he exuded a calmness that could be unsettling if one was not used to him.

                After a few hours, Stiles had filled his satchel and Derek had two rabbits, a squirrel, and three fowl dangling broken-necked from his fists. His mate convinced him that they would have plenty of food for tonight if everyone brought as much as they did. The rest of the morning was theirs, Stiles remarked with twinkling eyes.

                Derek knew he wanted something.

                “Stiles, what is it?” His eyes were closed, his head leaning against the soft bark of a tree. He did not need to see; he could hear the pattering of his mate's heart, smell the sour-sweet tang of excitement and anticipation.

                Stiles had proposed taking a rest before making the walk back home. Derek did not tire easily, but he had thought Stiles might need a break. He should have known his cunning mate was hatching a scheme. Stiles hunted and gathered near every day for the last decade. He was well-adapted to the toll of its labor by now. Stiles could not possess his wiry muscle and sinewy build without maintaining it.

                “Noshiko—and the Argents, when they were still alive—taught any villagers who were willing how to fight. How to handle weapons properly. Basic self-defense maneuvers. But the skilled fighters were few and the untrained villagers were many, so there was not much chance for individual improvement. And now there is only Chris and Noshiko.”

                Derek opened his eyes and considered his mate for a few moments. “Do you want me to teach you how to fight?”

                Stiles shook his head. “I want you to teach me how to protect myself and my loved ones. If the pack is willing, maybe they can help train the villagers, too.”

                “Very well. I can do that,” he replied softly. A warm breeze stirred his hair.

                Stiles grinned and rose to his feet.

                “Should we begin unarmed?” Derek offered. “You have no weapon—”

                Stiles bent and unsheathed a dagger from the inside of one boot with a soft, leathery whisper. His mate beamed and twirled the blade through his fingers. “Perhaps we should work up to unarmed combat. I cannot match your speed or reflexes.”

                Derek chuckled, shaking his head.

                “You should brandish your own weapons, husband,” Stiles added with a teasing smirk. Derek loved when his mate was playful and lively, the way it brightened and deepened his scent.

                Derek flicked his claws from the tips of his fingers with an effortless flourish. For a born wolf, the task was as natural as blinking.

                “ _All_ of your weapons, husband. I cannot improve if you hold back with me.”

                “As you wish,” Derek quipped, the telltale tingle inside his teeth forewarning of his fangs dropping.

                “Do wolves ever fight with man-made weapons?” Stiles asked, backing up a few paces, raising his arms to the level of his face in a defensive stance. The steel of his dagger slanted towards the ground, the hilt clenched in his right fist. The metal shone white in a beam of sunlight.

                “Not usually. Humans have to reach for weapons. We do not. We carry ours with us at all times. Those few, saved seconds can change the outcome of a fight.” His voice was thick and rough around his fangs, predatory, almost a growl.

                He circled his mate, who adjusted his footing accordingly but kept his eyes on Derek at all times. It was apparent that Stiles had past instruction.

                Derek's vision sharpened as his eyes bled to the ruby-red of an Alpha’s. It had not happened consciously, but he was not concerned about his control. There was no greater instinct for a wolf than to protect pup and pack and mate.

                Furthermore, confronting one's mate was bound to urge his inner wolf to the surface. Close contact, hot blood pumping and drumming a seductive beat, sweat gathering and spicing each other's scent. Play-fighting could be as intimate and primal as mating.

                Wolves did not treat mates as prey. The mating runs of old that occurred among the first werewolves were not driven by bloodlust or the impulse to hunt. Rather, a wolf accepted the challenge posed by its mate, its equal, and when the chase ended, the caught wolf surrendered with willing submission. The runs reaffirmed the mating bond, served as an outlet for the possessiveness of newly-mated wolves.

                “Will you shift for me, husband?”

                Derek was both delighted and dazed by the request. Surely Stiles had seen the wolves of his last pack in their beta forms, but he had not shown that part of himself to his mate yet.

                The few moments of surprise left Derek slack-jawed and unguarded. Stiles had slithered to his side, beyond his peripheral vision, and shoved him into the trunk of a nearby tree. His mate’s double-edged blade rested an inch from his throat.

                It had been a smart tactic for Stiles to force him sideways. Derek's feet and ankles had tangled and tripped him as he tried to restore his balance and footing in the soft debris of the forest floor. Far easier than it would have been to move him forward or backward.

                “That's one for me,” Stiles noted. “But truly, I would like to see your other face. If you are willing to show me.”

                His mate lowered the blade and moved back a step. Derek rolled his shoulders and exhaled, letting the rest of the change overcome him.

                “Claud needs to see this face, Derek. While he is still young. He should associate it with comfort and safety, not fear...May I?” Stiles inquired softly.

                “Yes,” he rasped between his elongated teeth.

                Stiles’ fingertips skimmed across his smoothed, raised brow, the scrunched bridge of his nose. The lower half of his face, from cheekbone to jaw, was mostly unchanged except for the dense patches of fur acting as sideburns. His mate combed through the thick outgrowth and rubbed his velvety, pointed ears between the pads of his fingers with the same carefulness as he did flower petals. A sweet, tiny smile curled the corners of Stiles’ lips.

                “You only overtook me through distraction,” Derek rumbled between his fangs. He was thankful for his garbled speech; he could better hide the unsteadiness of his voice. He had not been overly worried about Stiles’ reaction to his wolf-face, but it was a wonderful, simple pleasure to be looked upon with fondness and acceptance.

                “I am but a human. I must use every trick and strategy known to me.”

                “I will not be caught unawares again,” he warned his mate.

                Half of Stiles’ mouth quirked upwards into a sly grin. “I should hope not.”

                He trusted that Stiles savored his early victory because the human did not best him again. Derek employed speed and coordination and endurance that Stiles would never possess, no matter the intensity of his training. However, that did not mean he was undefeatable. With enough practice, Stiles could be a well-matched opponent for a wolf.  

                But this morning, Stiles’ blade was knocked from his hand over and over, Derek's claws poised in a mock death-stroke over his mate's tender throat or belly. He was careful. He could abide an exhausted and sore Stiles, but he would incur no bruises or wounds upon his mate.

                Stiles remained even-tempered in the face of repetitive defeat and absorbed Derek’s corrections to his posture and technique with a bright-eyed greed. He was enthusiastic to learn and advance.

                His mate was not entirely graceful, a fact Derek remembered well from having his own feet trodden upon throughout their wedding dance. For the dozenth time, Stiles stumbled to the ground after charging with a fruitless swipe of his dagger. Derek evaded the strike only too easily, but his mate's momentum carried him forward into the empty space.

                Stiles sprawled on his back, groaning with weariness, and slid his dagger back into his boot. “I think that is enough for today.” The human's face was ruddy, his hairline damp and his breaths coming in pants.

                “I think so, too,” Derek chuckled gently, offering his hand to help his mate back to his feet. His claws retracted into his fingertips before Stiles took his palm. Derek tossed his head, feeling his fangs retreat into his gums and become dull and human, his brow and ears following form. “If you like, we could practice a little every morning, while Claud is with Deaton.”

                “I would. Thank you.” Stiles plucked his moistened shirt away from his chest and back with a grimace. “I need a bath when we reach home.”

                “Why? You smell good.”

                Stiles’ eyes widened comically. “I do not.” His mate looked scandalized.

                Derek shrugged. “Your natural scent is in your sweat, your blood, your skin. I like it.”

                His mate was already too flushed to blush, but he did turn his eyes to the ground and chew his lip for a few seconds.

                “Really?” Stiles squinted, like he was reluctant to hear the answer.

                Derek leaned close and murmured, “Really.” He darted forward and licked a sliding bead of sweat from Stiles’ temple.

                “That is _foul_ ,” Stiles complained, giggling and pushing him away by the shoulder. He wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, exposing his flat stomach and quivering muscles, shiny with perspiration.

                Derek's nostrils flared, but his mate did not notice.

                “Come along, wolf-man.” His mate grinned and retrieved the satchel leaning against a tree trunk. He followed Stiles and hung the tied game across one shoulder. With their hands free and swinging, the human’s fingers twined through his without either prompting or question. “It is time to get the baby.” Stiles sighed afterwards, a wispy, light sound of contentment.

                They walked home hand in hand.

* * *

                “I appreciate you looking after him, Alan. Are you sure he is not taking too much of your time?” Stiles took his son back from the emissary and hitched the boy atop his hip.

                “Not at all,” Deaton assured in his serene, silky voice. That attribute had proved him a savior to new parents with fussy pups. Alan could soothe even the most ill-tempered cub, and Claud liked him as much as any of the children. “Bring him over any time you need.”

                Stiles’ single condition about leaving Claud with a pack member was that the same person should look after him. With half the pack leaving, Stiles did not want the baby to become attached to someone who would be gone a few days later. Nor did he want the infant juggled between several wolves unrecognizable to Claud.

                Deaton was remaining with them at the dens. He was needed most with the pups and the older wolves. Hopefully, Melissa and Scott could handle any and all ailments that struck the rest of the pack. Aside from the mothers themselves, Alan had the most experience with the cubs, acting as midwife when the birthing time approached. Deaton kept a den separate from the one where he treated the ill or the wounded, so Claud would not risk sickness. To Derek, he seemed the natural choice for who should watch his stepson.

                It was healthy for Stiles to spend time away from his son, and the opposite. Claud needed to be exposed to his pack, to meet his new brothers and sisters. Stiles was beginning to understand that.

                They said goodbye to Deaton for now. The entire pack would meet again after sunset.

                They dropped off most of their catch at the clearing near the dens, the same spot used for pack meetings, for the space was large enough to accommodate everyone. The wolves that did not hunt or gather that morning were skinning and dicing and roasting the food for tonight's meal.

                The den sites were busy and echoed with noise. Many dens stood with their doors ajar, as residents kept meandering in and out of their homes. Smoke rose from breakfast fires, wolves carried buckets of water and broken branches to the clearing, pups yipped and wound through the legs of industrious adults.

                Derek soaked in the sight with unbridled satisfaction, his shoulder brushing his mate's as they made the way to their den. It was good to witness life in his pack.

                They started their own breakfast. He had fed Claud before leaving him with Deaton this morning, but that had been hours ago, and the babe would be ready to eat again.

                Stiles handed Claud over to him and unloaded the food.

                “Are you hungry, pup?” Derek cooed, shuffling the baby into a comfortable hold in his arms. “Hmmm?” He rubbed their cheeks together, scent-marking the child, and nudged noses with the boy.

                When he looked up, he found Stiles watching him. His mate’s bottom lip wobbled, his eyes big and pained, and he appeared on the verge of tears. Derek was alarmed, but he smelled no fear, no sadness, no anxiety. By his mate's tender expression, he would guess that Stiles was touched.

                In lieu of an explanation, the human announced, “No more teasing me about ‘chipmunk,’ then.” He nodded to himself and sniffed, returning to his half-chopped onions.            


	11. Chapter 11

**STILES**

               Scott and Kira held a traditional village ceremony. Mother Nature contributing to the arrangements was a fortunate sign, according to Lorraine. The autumn weather was perfectly cool without promising rain, and leaves of fiery reds, yellows, and oranges overtook the grass. The villagers only kept the dirt lane that connected all of their homes clear, and that was a task in and of itself with the chilly, mischievous winds of the season. The floral, grassy smell of summer had faded, replaced by the damp, earthy odor of fall.

               Diminishing hours of sunlight necessitated that the wedding occur in the afternoon, so as to allow enough daylight for the wedding and the beginning of the festivities.

               He and the remaining half of the pack arrived the morning of the celebration. The village was hectic with last-minute preparations, and for the first time, Stiles was not a participant. Today, he was a bystander, an outsider, and so he refrained from seeking out any of his friends and interfering with their labors. There would time aplenty to visit loved ones, human and wolf, after the wedding.

               He was not entirely without purpose today. As Scott's oldest friend, he had a responsibility to offer his service and support to the groom.

               Derek accompanied him as far Scott’s hut before departing, intent on finding his uncle and cousin. His husband left him with a kiss to the back of his hand and a playful smirk, Claud wiggling in the wolf's arms and gurgling goodbye over Derek’s shoulder.

               Scott was only suffering a mild case of nerves when Stiles found him. He dressed the groom, straightening and fastening and tying Scott’s clothes to a crisp perfection that would even appease Lydia. The seamstress was otherwise occupied, certainly subjecting Kira to a more merciless form of the same torture at the Yukimuras’ hut.

               Noshiko was still fussing with the wedding arch up to the last moment. She placed a few more leaves between the wound branches until Ken kissed her forehead and ushered her back to her place at the front of the crowd. Stiles admired their balance. Noshiko, always so stalwart, leaning upon the modest, underlying strength of her husband. The seamless, natural give-and-take of the encounter. Stiles prayed to the gods that Kira and Scott would still complement one another so well after decades of marriage. That he and Derek could prove to be such fitting counterparts someday.

               With nothing left for Scott to do but make his entrance, Stiles filled his space between Derek and the Chief. The wolves had clustered on one side of the aisle, gathering behind their Alpha. Stiles was not the only one anticipating reunions today.

               Scott and Kira embodied the ideal of young love, beautiful and glowing as they walked hand-in-hand down the path between their guests. To the other side of his father, Melissa cried in silence, dabbing her tears away with her sleeve.

               The bride and groom stepped in front of Lorraine, the priestess swathed in her white robes. Only four months ago, he and Derek stood in the same places. He cast a furtive glance at his husband, who felt the weight of his eyes nonetheless. Derek squeezed the hand resting on his knee, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smile.

               Lorraine served as the sole officiate. She read the sacred vows, and Scott and Kira, in front of village and pack, agreed to uphold them for as long as they lived. They traded a honeyed kiss and passed through the marriage arch to the encouragement of cheers and howls. The disassembled branches crackled and spit in a burst of flames, the music loudened, and the feasting and dancing began.

               Husband and wife reserved the first dance for one another. Afterwards, the bride and groom split to entertain offers from family and well-wishers.

               He watched the merriment from the fringe, Derek to his side and Claud nestled in his arms. Stiles had spent the morning with Scott, and he missed his son, needed to hold him and drag his lips through his baby’s growing, silky hair. He imagined that Derek could use a reprieve from the childrearing duties as well.

               All too soon, Scott weaved through the throng and stopped before them, giving a truly obnoxious bow and asking Stiles for a dance. Stiles could not very well refuse the groom on the eve of his wedding.

               “Go,” Derek urged, cocking his head in Scott’s direction.

               Stiles sighed and passed Claud back into his husband’s waiting arms. “Thank you.” He pecked the corner of Derek’s lips, his hand sliding down the Alpha’s forearm as Scott pulled him into the center of the crowd.

               Scott was a better dancer than him, in that he tripped less often. Still, the groom's steps were heavy-footed and irregular. It always felt like a contest between them rather than a dance, ever since they were boys. The victor was the one still standing by the end of the song.

               Tonight, Scott was impervious to embarrassment, his smile inextinguishable. Unexpectedly, the singular thing able to dampen it was the subject of the married couple’s new living arrangements. Stiles would have thought his friend would be overjoyed, no longer having to resort to the woods or the riverbank at midnight for his more...private interactions with Kira.

               As proposed, Chris moved into a new hut, allowing Melissa to occupy the Argents’ former home. Scott remained in his childhood hut so that only Kira would have to move her possessions. Furthermore, being two of only three available healers required the McCalls to remain close to another and centralized in the village.

               It was a sensible idea on Melissa’s part—the least amount of exertion and inconvenience for all involved—but the proximity to his mother, as a newly-married man, concerned Scott.

               “What if she _hears_?” his friend whispered, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. The groom peered down at their clumsy, overlarge feet, trying to arrange them so that they stopped bumping the toes of their boots every other step.

               Stiles snickered but cleared his throat due to a lifelong obligation of loyalty towards his brother. “Oh, Scott. While I would never dream of doubting your skill or prowess—”

               Scott pinched the tender skin of his waist, where one hand rested. “I was not talking on Kira’s behalf,” he admitted in a panicked, hushed tone. His eyes darted to the surrounding guests and dancers, wary of eavesdroppers.

               “Are you honestly _that_ loud?” Stiles wheezed, doing his utmost to keep his words from trembling with barely-stifled amusement.

               “What should I do?” Scott pleaded.

               “Find a wad of wool. If your mother will not stick it in her ears, Kira can shove it in your mouth.”

               The groom's jaw dropped. “You are horrible and cruel. You spend too much time with Lydia.”

               Stiles coughed through his laughter. “I am sorry, my friend. Your problem has me out of my depth.” Undoubtedly, Scott and Kira’s wedding night would not end the same as either of his own.

               Scott pressed a wet, smacking kiss to his cheek when their dance ended. Stiles surmised that the copious slobber cooling against his face was Scott’s revenge for being teased.

               Stiles spent much of the evening in dances, moving from one partner to the next. Every time he tried to slink away from the crowd and back to Derek, another friend would appear and request a turn.

               These days, it was no small feat to watch Claud. The babe had been squirming constantly since he first crawled a week ago, eager to explore anything and everything he could now reach and grasp on his own. The boy was tireless, doughy arms and legs thrashing in their own sort of dance whenever Claud could not touch the ground.

                Stiles would need to start settling the accumulating stack of favors he owed his husband.

               Kira was without a partner for the first time in hours. Everyone wanted a chance with a young, beautiful bride. She caught Stiles’ eye just as she finished a dance with Melissa and waved him over to her.

               The bride did not walk so much as glide across the ground in the gown Lydia made for her. The fabric was a thin, brushed wool, the faint pink of tea roses. It cut straight across Kira’s chest and shoulders, the skirts flowing to her ankles and the sleeves to her wrists to defend against the cool evening. Tiny beads of silver and glass spiraled around the bodice, mixing with seed pearls. The final accent was a circlet of aspen twigs, the bark bone-white with black knots, sitting against the glossy stream of Kira’s hair.

               As they danced, she whispered secrets in his ear, suspicions about the infatuation Liam had been harboring for her over the last several months. How it was only to be rivaled by the beta’s idolization of Scott. Apparently, the young wolf had been hovering at the edge of the dancers most of the night, doing his utmost to appear as though he was not watching her.

                Kira was ultimately merciful, ending the pup’s suffering, his immobilizing indecision. She knew he would not gather the courage—at least, not tonight—to ask her himself. It was a harmless indulgence, to lead him away from the fringe and into the crowd, positioning his trembling hands at her waist. So sweet and bright-eyed and eager to please.

               No sooner had Kira twirled out of his arms than he found himself engulfed by Lydia’s. She was not the sort of lady to wait for an invitation, though she never lacked interested suitors. When Lydia Martin asked for a dance, one had dare not refuse her.

               Her hands cradled his hips with deftness, assuming the leading position, and she pursed her pouty lips expectantly. Stiles sighed, a nod to his dignity rather than an actual expression of annoyance, and linked his arms behind her neck.

               “Hello, darling,” she purred. A cat that got the cream, indeed.

               He could not stop the helpless smile that infiltrated his features. “My lady. I saw Jordan sitting amongst the Martin women during the ceremony,” he noted.

               Lydia did not _grunt_ ; it was too unbecoming for a woman of her self-styled nobility. She did let slip a terse yet prim noise of feigned interest, as if this were the first she was hearing of it.

               “Jordan and I have reached a mutual understanding,” she conceded. “We know what we want and what we do not need. It was apparent all too soon to both of us that we would better serve one another as friends.”

               Stiles pointed his smirk towards the ground for his own personal safety. “Is that your tactful way of implying that you limit your encounters to the late night?”

               “How uncouth,” she scolded, her petite yet forceful hands reeling him in against her full bodice with an impact that made his teeth rattle. That was all the confirmation he needed.

               “And, yet, I still missed you the last two months.”

               Lydia softened her hold and the vicious curl of her lips. “As did I.” She stroked through his hair with generous affection.

               Stiles found himself cast aside when Peter offered Lydia his hand. He could only imagine the power struggle that would ensue. They were too similar, both sharp of eye and quick of wit. Lydia blew him a kiss over Peter’s shoulder, her smile both dangerous and diabolical as the wolf dipped her backwards over his thigh.

               Stiles retreated to the edge of the clearing, seeking his husband and a cup of ale. Maybe more than a cup.

               He found Claud first, struggling within his grandfather's hold. The Chief spotted him, pausing his conversation with Isaac, and wrangled Stiles into a one-armed hug. His father pecked the crown of his head in greeting.

               “Have you seen Derek?” he questioned, tickling Claud’s cheek and offering him a few fingers to squeeze and bite.

               “Chris asked him for a dance,” Isaac answered, looking charming in a sky-blue linen shirt.

               “ _Oh_.” The shock was evident in his voice, and his father’s mouth twitched with amusement. Stiles scanned the dancers until his eyes landed upon the unlikely pair.

               Pack and village colliding. For Stiles, each of those worlds had remained mostly segregated until now. He bounced back and forth between them, but they had been distinct and separate, each with their own memories and associations. The first movement of wolves into the village changed that. New relationships had arisen, and the humans and wolves were now entrenched in one another’s lives like they had not been at his own wedding. That was the fundamental purpose of the integration; that was something to be celebrated.

               Still, some things would require a period of adjustment.

               Stiles watched Derek and Chris for a few moments, unable to tear his gaze away. The wolf and the hunter were elegant together. They moved with grace and synchronicity, both absurdly handsome with their pristine, white linen shirts tucked into their trousers. Derek wore midnight black, Chris charcoal gray.

               It was not a pang of jealousy that shot through him at the sight of Chris’ hands curled around his husband’s trim waist, their chests and bellies almost brushing from the closeness, eyes connected in an intense and steadfast stare. It was something else entirely. A spark ignited, burned low in the pit of Stiles’ belly, and it had been so long since he felt its likeness that he barely recognized it for what it was.

               Isaac sidled up to him, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach. If his discerning nose detected anything interesting about Stiles’ reaction, the beta was polite enough not to mention it. Isaac was not one to exploit the embarrassment of another.

               His reverie broken, Stiles scoured his surroundings for his father and son, but the beta informed him that they had gone in search of food.

               “Magnificent, are they not?” The wolf commented, his eyes touching Stiles’ for only a moment before flitting away. Isaac’s shoulders still hunched, and his arms wound tighter around himself when he thought no one was looking. But he smiled, too, a soft and easy curve of his lips as he watched Chris.

               “They are,” Stiles agreed. “We are lucky men.”

               Isaac bit his lip and rocked on his long legs, considering his next words with care. “He is a human. Breakable. Vulnerable. Defenseless against most of the things that can do him real harm. Yet, he—he makes me feel so safe.” The beta swallowed, his throat cording from the tight motion. “And so very loved. Sometimes I envy him so much it makes me sick inside. How does he do it?” Isaac asked, his voice strained with feeling, entreating.

               “Tragedy is a brutal motivator.” Paltry words. He understood them, at best, in theory. Certainly not in practice. He cupped the beta’s shoulder and squeezed, hoping the gesture might provide some consolation.

               Seconds later, Chris strode over, wrapping him in a suffocating embrace. “Stiles,” he greeted, palming the back of his head.

               “Hello, my friend,” Stiles gasped, chuckling, as the air returned to him.

               The hunter looped an arm around the beta’s shoulder, pressing a long kiss to his cheek. Isaac simpered, clutching a surreptitious handful of the older man’s shirt. Anyone with an intuitive eye could tell that Chris was the dominant partner, despite lacking several inches and supernatural abilities. He was the protector, the unassuming strength and inner calm that kept Isaac rooted.  

               How nice it looked, Stiles thought. The unforced affection, the casualness. Derek stood close enough that Stiles’ palm slid into the depression between his husband’s shoulder blades. The gesture was so automatic, reflexive, that a jolt of shock zipped through him. The Alpha, too, twitched in surprise before his glance slid sidelong, his lips quirking into a quick smile.   

               “Your husband is a fine dancer,” Chris stated, blue eyes glittering with mischief. No doubt Derek knew he was being scrutinized and measured throughout their dance, all in the name of some perceived duty of friendship from Chris. The Alpha handled the entire situation with understanding and aplomb, of course, as was his fashion.

               Derek gave a small nod of thanks in Chris’ direction. Stiles’ fingers convulsed and pressed deeper into the hot muscle of Derek's back. “Very fine.”

               “Isaac,” Chris turned his full attention to the beta, “would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

               “Yes.” Isaac’s response was a breathy, wisp of a word. Damning evidence of first love. Chris tangled his fingers with the wolf’s and lured him back into the fold of dancers, raising a hand in farewell before the mass swallowed them.  

               Derek's eyes followed the couple for a few moments before his gaze fell upon Stiles. “What next?”

               “A drink. Please.”

               He knew the urgency had seeped into his voice when Derek chuckled and nodded, brushing over Stiles’ hip with his knuckle. “To the ale.”

               They weaved through the guests to the row of ale barrels lining the edge of the clearing. “The pup looks happy,” Derek noted, the satisfaction plain in his voice.

               Stiles snorted. “He shares my age, and you call him ‘pup?’”

               “He will always be a pup to me.”

               They found Malia near one of the barrels, sitting in the grass with her legs crossed. She was devouring a leg of pheasant in a butter-yellow dress.

               “I have yet to see you dance with anyone,” Stiles commented.

               Malia garbled around a mouthful of bird, “There was little chance. I headed straight for the meat and ale.”

               Stiles was never going to get his ale. He shared a look with his husband, who nodded. “Then I will be the envy of every guest when you take me as your first partner.”

               The she-wolf rolled her eyes, scenting flattery with more ease than she did deer. Yet, she drained the rest of her cup in a single gulp, in concession. “I am not very talented,” she disclaimed.

               “Then we will make a perfect match,” Stiles assured her, offering his hand.

               “I did warn you.” She shrugged and took it, handing the remains of her pheasant leg to Derek, who seated himself atop one of the barrels and took a bite of the fowl.  

               The Alpha grinned. “Do not fear, cousin. I will guard the ale for you until you return.” His husband’s smile lost its mocking edge, sweetened when Derek turned to him. “I will pour you a cup,” he promised.

               “Off we go then, Terpsichore,” Malia huffed, tugging him forward.  

               They were terrible together. Gods bless her, Malia had the long legs and preternatural coordination to make her a decent dancer by herself. But with a partner, she was wild and aggressive, and Stiles could barely match her let alone manage his own ungainliness. They stumbled more than a few times, Malia cursing far too loudly to be appropriate, giggles erupting from the pair of them until their sides were ready to split. A ring of empty space surrounded them by the end of the song, a cushion that protected their fellow dancers against Malia’s high kicks and sprawling dips, his own outward spins. The diameter was a testament to their menace.

               Malia parted from him, pink-faced and eyes sparkling, with a kiss to his brow. Silent thanks.

               “I can take it from here.” The words slithered over Stiles’ shoulder, into his right ear, just as Peter appeared at his side.

               The beta winked and took his daughter in his arms. He would have more success garnering a respectable performance from his own cub. But not much. Malia could not be tamed, a pleasing certainty accompanying that thought as he wandered for the dozenth time back to his husband and his drink.  

               The Alpha greeted him with a knowing smile, handing him a cup filled to the brim. “That was kind of you.”

               Stiles scoffed, ale dripping down his chin. His face burned as he wiped his mouth with the side of his hand, immediately picturing one of the countless occasions where Claud vomited or drooled in a similar manner. His poor husband.

               The ale was as delicious as he remembered, an indecent groan bubbling from his throat after the next gulp. His first taste since he decided to conceive. Three years past, he calculated. Perhaps more than two cups tonight, then.

               Derek's eyes glimmered with amusement at his reaction, one brow raising.

               “It was purely selfish,” Stiles assured. “Malia is humorous, spirited. I am very fond of your cousin’s company.” He swallowed another mouthful of the familiar dark, bitter brew.

               Derek hummed in reply, arms crossed at his stomach, his own drink balancing in one hand. “Do you think you have any dances left for me?” The wolf peered at him before tipping his cup back.  

               Stiles beamed. “Let me quench my thirst, husband, and you can have as many as you like.”

               And he did quench it. Enough for his belly to feel buoyant, for the edges of his vision to blur and soften. He was warm, loose-limbed, and relaxed when he joined his husband in a dance, only the well-fed bonfire lighting the ground for them. The drink did nothing to improve his balance, as Derek quickly realized.

               The wolf released a soft chuckle. “Let me.” Derek coaxed him forward by the waist until the only place to step was the tops of Derek’s boots. The added weight appeared to have no effect on his husband, as the Alpha kept their rhythm without faltering a step. Stiles felt ridiculous for a few moments, but it was so lovely, not having to worry about the posture and placement of his wobbly legs.

               His heavy eyes slipped closed, cheek resting against Derek’s collarbone and arms circling the wolf’s neck. He let Derek lead them in a gentle sway, his movements smooth and even.

               “My mother used to dance with me like this. When I was a boy,” he murmured, scratching and plucking the hair at Derek’s nape. He giggled and dragged his nose and lips along the base of Derek’s throat. The solid arms around him did not waver, but they tightened for an instant.

               The wolf’s breath was hot against his scalp as Derek spoke into his hair. “Something amusing?”

               “I like the way you smell.” He smiled into the fabric of the wolf’s shirt. The subtle fragrance rising from his husband’s skin and clothes was smoke and rainwater and forest, a breath of nature. Even before he liked _Derek_ , he had liked the Alpha’s scent, his appearance, the feel and the heat of him.

               Stiles was quite positive that he had never admitted any of that before, especially not to Derek. In fact, he liked to treat that information as a secret. Until now, that is, when his inhibitions had started crumbling.  

               Derek’s laughter rumbled underneath his cheek. “I am glad to hear it.”

               Stiles pulled away from the Alpha’s chest to catch his husband’s eyes. “And me? You told me you liked my scent once.”

               “I still do. It is different tonight. But, yes, I like it.”

               “Oh. Good.” Stiles blinked a few times, eyes tending to cross when he tried to focus them. “Wait. Different because I am a little drunk?” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together in front of the Alpha’s face, a miniscule gap between them. It seemed important to provide a scale of intoxication, to quantify what “a little” meant.

               “Of course. Only a little,” his husband replied, humoring him. Stiles dove back into the warm, dark comfort of Derek’s shoulder, not bothered enough to mount a more substantial self-defense.

               He grunted into the wolf’s neck. “I have ruined another one of your nights. You spent the first half watching a baby and the second caring for a sloppy, overgrown child.”

               Derek rubbed along the length of his spine in soothing strokes. “Stop that,” he murmured. “We have lost time to make up for, my stepson and I. He is no burden to me, and neither are you.”  

               A soft huff left Stiles’ mouth. “Will you never tire of taking care of me? I feel as if all you ever do is clean up after me.”

               The wolf combed absentmindedly through Stiles’ hair, silence stretching between them. Eventually, his husband remarked, “You never let me take care of you. How could I tire of it?” Even through the ale-induced haze, Stiles could sense the sadness, the resignation in the wolf’s voice.

               Derek was always so careful with his words, tiptoeing around all of Stiles’ faults and wrongdoings, never wanting to project blame or induce guilt. Even when Stiles was responsible, when he deserved it. The Alpha was so magnanimous and compassionate about his flaws when all Stiles really wanted sometimes was for Derek to scream and fight and put him in his place. But that was just another selfish desire. Anger, he could handle; it was disappointment that crippled him.  

               He was colder, harsher than he used to be. On his worst days, he might even describe himself as unfeeling. He had shattered, once, and when he summoned the strength, teeth gritted, to reassemble himself, not all of the pieces had returned to their original positions. He contained gaps and raised edges where unfitting fragments had been forced together, resistant and jagged. He was an entirely new and disfigured shape. But he could only rely on that self-pitying excuse for so long, too.   

               Firelight danced inside Derek’s eyes when Stiles stated, “The gods must possess a nasty sense of humor to have saddled you with me.”

               The Alpha’s brow furrowed, heavy and distraught. He always made everything so difficult, his empathy so fierce and unwavering. “Do not say such things.”

               “Derek. Sweet husband.” He cupped one of the wolf’s cheeks, his eyes blurry and wet. Perhaps it was the ale that spurred his admission. Perhaps it was only the inevitability of truth and time. “We both know that you are far too good for me.”

               His husband ceased all movement. Stiles wondered if the pair of them drew much attention, an anchor in a sea of dancers.

               Derek caught the hand slipping down his face and grasped it tight. “That is not true.”

               “ _In vino veritas_ , as the ancients used to say.” Stiles smiled, the muscles taut and aching in his face. Even his body knew it was a lie. “I _am_ trying. To be a better mate, a _good_ mate. One worthy of you.”

               The wolf nudged their foreheads together, his grip on Stiles’ hand approaching uncomfortable. It was the most brazen display of failing composure that Stiles had yet witnessed in his stoic husband. He found it oddly self-affirming, a significant answer to an unspoken question.

               Derek murmured, “I have not forgotten my vows. You are mine. My only. All I want is the entirety of you: heartache and love and joy and imperfection and the rest.”

               Stiles swallowed against the tightness of his throat. “Is that all?” His laugh quavered and fell short.

               The Alpha kissed his temple. “All that I will ever ask of you.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's official. None of my Stilinski names are canon-compliant anymore except for Claudia's. I feel like it would be weird to change them at this point, so I'm just gonna leave them in their glaring inaccuracy.
> 
> Also, and more importantly, please check the end note for warnings relevant to this chapter if you feel susceptible to triggering material. It is slightly spoiler-y, so proceed with caution, lovely readers <3

**STILES**

                He could not remember when he last had this much leisure time. With half the pack gone, he only gathered for nineteen people, including the pups and Claud, and the remaining wolves still hunted. Stiles could harvest all that he needed within two or three hours by himself, half that when his packmates contributed to the day’s haul. Meanwhile, Derek split and alternated the household chores with him, washing clothes, preparing meals, fetching water, cleaning the den. The Alpha even helped him bathe Claud, which proved to be much easier with four hands than two when one was dealing with a slippery, splashing, wiggling infant.            

                Similar responsibilities occupied the other denmates’ mornings, but the pack reserved the afternoons for communal work. The adults had been breaking down the empty dens, using the lumber to fashion carts for the soon-approaching emigration. After the volunteers left for the village, the pack condensed, some members moving dens, so that they surrounded their Alpha. A safety measure, to be sure, but one with sentimental motivation as well. The wolves did not want to be separated any further than they already were. The new arrangement eliminated any gaps but left the peripheral dens vacant and unused. Cutting new timber for carts would be far more laborious than dismantling the dens, not to mention an unnecessary exploitation of the forest that had sheltered them.

                They nailed and sawed and sanded until sunset, which came quicker and quicker with the closing of autumn, and spent the evenings as they liked. From supper onwards, Stiles had no duties. He took advantage of the empty hours, setting time aside each night to play with Claud and spar with Derek. His husband believed that the early, long darkness of the season could expand and intensify their training now that Stiles’ hand-eye coordination and footwork had improved.  

                Naturally, Derek’s night vision was superior to his, but it was only sharp and focused with his lupine eyes. His husband assured him it was the same with other wolves. In low light, where a human could see nothing, Derek’s kind could see rough outlines and undefined shapes. Yet, in cases of camouflage or motion, a wolf needed its true eyes. The distinct glow, whether yellow, blue, or red, made the wolves easy to spot, gave prey or targets at least a _chance_ of survival.

                Derek jested that it was Mother Nature’s punishment for their arrogance, for describing themselves as supernatural, _above Her._ Werewolves—as an _idea_ , as a _design_ —seemed the perfect predators. The intelligence of humans, the weapons of animals, the enhanced abilities only known to themselves. Well, the Earth-Mother would not abide that. Nothing in nature could be perfect, invulnerable. She planted flaws and weaknesses within the species’ plan. The conspicuous eyes, for one, making them readily detectable. Flowers of purple, blue, and yellow that poisoned wolves, that could kill them within hours. Trees that when pulverized to ashy powder could repel or trap them. These frailties were but a sample from the body of knowledge Deaton possessed regarding supernatural medicine, that he would pass to Scott and Melissa.    

                After sunset, Derek practiced with him outside their den rather than within the woods, the Alpha unwilling to endanger him in the blackness of the forest or leave his pack at such a late hour. Alan always took Claud during that time, insisting he enjoyed the babe’s company. The emissary had a lighter workload these days as well.

                Even with the two glowing, ruby points of Derek’s eyes to orient him, Stiles agreed that they should forego armed sparring after dark. It would most likely culminate in Stiles tripping and impaling himself with his own dagger. Furthermore, his basic hand-to-hand technique required work.

                After a decent bout of training, Stiles fetched Claud from the emissary’s den, feeling sweaty and winded, his muscles liquefied. His son napped in Alan’s arms, lulled to sleep by the heat of the hearth and the gentle sway of the rocking chair. Stiles gathered the sweet boy to his own chest, mouthing silent thanks to Deaton, who nodded and smiled as he walked them to the door.

                Derek had already coaxed a small fire by the time they returned, the flames licking delicately at the kindling. The Alpha wiped his hands on the front of his trousers and rose, lips twitching into a quick grin when he caught sight of the dozing babe.  

                “I am going to lie with him for a bit,” Stiles whispered, rubbing along his baby’s back. Claud’s arms were tucked beneath himself, fists curled near Stiles’ left collarbone.

                “I will start some tea.” Derek grabbed a packet of leaves and a pot off the table.

                “Let me know when it is ready?”

                “Certainly.” The wolf threw a smile over his shoulder, dropping a handful of leaves into the water along with a furtive, extra pinch of sugar for Stiles. Once Derek hung the pot over the fire, he helped line the edges of the bed with blankets and pillows in case Claud squirmed out of reach. The babe grew bolder and more confident in his crawl every day. Soon, he would walk.

                Stiles sank into the plush embrace of the mattress, exhaling, his son sprawled across his chest and belly. His eyes drooped, and he could not even muster the will to wipe Claud’s pooling drivel from his shirt.    

                “Only for a bit. Until the tea is ready,” Stiles mumbled, his outstretched fingertips grazing Derek’s forearm.

                The Alpha smirked, soft and sweet but humoring all the same. Stiles could hear the teasing accommodation in his voice. “Of course,” the wolf murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.   

* * *

                Waking felt like coming back to life, his slumber had been so deep. His limbs were leaden, skin hot and tight from the fire and the dried sweat. It took several moments for the fog of sleep to dissipate from his head and his eyes, to reacquaint himself with his surroundings.

                His hand drifted to his chest on instinct, blindly searching for the babe supposed to be resting there. Instead, his palm bumped against his own breastbone, his senses sharpening with a nauseating abruptness. Stiles’ stomach lurched and roiled with the recognition that the small, warm weight of his son was not where it had been before he fell asleep. Not anywhere at all, actually. A sour taste filled his dust-dry mouth. Fresh sweat broke across his face and back.

                He surveyed the room with franticness, shaky limbs pushing himself into a sitting position. The border of blankets and pillows remained intact, but nevertheless, Stiles’ first move was to drop to the floor, splinters of pain radiating through his knees at the impact, and check under the bed.

                “Claud, baby. Where are you?” His chest had constricted to the point of agony—of hysteria—each breath hot and shallow and labored. He stumbled into the kitchen area, a robust fire burning in the hearth, the hanging tea pot releasing its fragrance. Stiles shoved the chairs away from the table, crawling underneath it, expecting to find nothing, cursing himself in his mind. He needed to concentrate, to be rational, because _his son was not here_.

                The panic overshadowed—swallowed—any of the lingering shame he felt for handling the situation so poorly. In times of crisis, Stiles liked to think that he was practical and useful even when he was not composed. A problem solver. Perhaps he was in any disaster that did not involve his own child. He wished he could say that his mind did not dive straight into dramatics, but it did, conjuring the worst possible scenarios. Claud somehow wandering outside, being stolen or injured or…Or.

                He tore the clean clothes out of the basket near their bed, strewing them across the floor, his heart nearly crushing in upon itself when he reached the empty bottom.

                Claud was not tucked inside the washing. He was not inside the den with its sparse furnishing and limited hiding places. Stiles would have known from the instant he started searching if his son was here. It was so brutally obvious, so logical, but he could not slow the frenzied working of his mind. If he did, if he stopped for even a moment, his worst fears, his most tormenting nightmares, would engulf him. He could not afford to unravel any further.

                “Oh, gods, please,” he croaked, struggling back to his feet. He buried his face in his hands, scrubbed the hair away from his forehead, and tried to collect a full breath.

                Derek. He needed to find Derek. It was no coincidence that his husband and son were both absent. Yet, the wolf would not just _take_ Claud without informing him. Stiles had known his son’s whereabouts every moment since he entered the world ten months ago. For if anything happened, Stiles knew where to go and whom to find. The Alpha must have known—he _should_ have known—how Stiles would react to an empty bed, without any explanation or forewarning.     

                His body shook with mingled worry and rage as he stepped into his boots, ready to scour the whole forest if need be. As he pulled his coat around his shoulders, the door opened. Derek paused in the doorway, considering the disarray of their den, clothes scattered, furniture moved, before his wide eyes focused upon Stiles. His nostrils flared from the onslaught of fury and terror and anxiety seeping from Stiles’ skin. The Alpha appeared surprised to see him awake, let alone fully dressed and ready to leave.

                Claud was propped in his stepfather’s arms, little fists pushing against Derek’s broad chest so he could turn his too-large, wobbly head in Stiles’ direction. The wolf’s hand seemed enormous and powerful as it cupped the back of the baby’s fragile skull, keeping it stable and upright. Claud delivered his favorite giggle-shriek when he caught sight of his father, amber eyes bright and twinkling in the firelight.

                Stiles sobbed once, a hand covering his mouth, fruitlessly trying to smother the noise. His breaths shuddered with ecstatic relief.  

                “Give him to me,” he demanded, voice trembling and thick as the tears spilled down his face. He charged forward and scooped the child out of Derek’s arms before his husband could utter a single word. “I have you, my darling.” He confirmed his son’s presence, his safety, with each kiss to the infant’s face.  

                A warm hand brushed his elbow. “Stiles—”

                He could hear the apology in his husband’s voice already. Derek had never lacked awareness. The wolf knew the reason for Stiles’ upset.

                Stiles did not soften, only slid away from the contact while clutching his son closer to him. He saw the hurt and confusion bloom across the Alpha’s face, and the vicious, vengeful part of him delighted in it.

                Derek offered no further explanations or protests or excuses. He waited, solemn and regretful, closing the door behind them.

                “I woke, and he was gone,” Stiles stated, voice hushed and level and savage. It was a tone that emerged only in times of unsurpassable rage, when he could see nothing but red behind his eyelids and his thoughts converged with a frightening intensity upon the subject of his ire. Derek had never witnessed this hostility, apart from the first night they shared in this den—but even then, Stiles had not been angry, only defensive.

                “He stirred before you, fussing. I held him until he settled, carried him outside, so his cries would not wake you. I only stepped out for _a moment_ ,” the Alpha assured, his hands raised, palms bared, surrendering.    

                A shiver, icy-hot, shot down Stiles’ spine. “ _You_ do not get to make decisions regarding _my_ son. One moment he was with me and the next he was gone. Can you even comprehend how that felt? He was _gone._ ” More tears trickled down his face, but he could not remember beginning to cry again. No more than he could recall whether he had ever stopped. He was numb to his own body as it sought to process, to respond to, the storm of emotions swirling inside it.  

                Derek’s brows knitted together in misery, jaw muscles flexing with a forceful swallow. A deep frown carved itself into the wolf’s lips. “Stiles, I never meant to worry you. I do understand. He is your first child—”

                “He is _not_ my—” Stiles gnashed his teeth together, groaning, gritting them against another sob. “You had no right. You have no claim to him, Alpha title be _damned_ ,” he snarled. “I am not your beta, and he is not your son.” He brushed past his husband, the door thumping behind him as he fled into the cool night air.  

                A few wolves still gathered around a cookfire several dens down, but most of the pack had withdrawn to their own homes for the night. He could not bear any of their glances or questions right now, not while he was tearstained and half-manic, clutching his child with urgency. He just needed a quiet place to hide and recover, just for a little while.  

                Deaton opened his door after the second knock. The emissary’s dark eyes flicked over his face, assessing his current state in the span of a blink. He stepped aside without a word.

                Alan led him to the rocking chair near the fire, Claud’s favorite, and noted, “A hot cup of tea is what you need. With extra honey.”

                The healer handed the steaming cup to him and dragged one of the chairs from his table to Stiles’ side. They drank in silence, Stiles rocking his son, Alan stripping the leaves from an herb, depositing them into a labeled glass jar.

                The source of Deaton’s charm. Never pushing, never forcing, never rushing. The man let things happen in their own time, in their own way. He never gave one _all_ of the information but nudged and guided just enough that one arrived at his or her own answers, decided his or her own path. Stiles’ first pack contained no such figure, so he learned on his own, little by little, that the fundamental role of an emissary was that of a facilitator.  

                Once the last of the tears dried upon Stiles’ cheeks, he rasped, “I was cruel. Last time I fought with him, I only did what I thought I had to. This time, I meant to hurt him.” He sighed, wiping his face with one hand.

                Alan watched the flames dance, his hands clasped over his stomach. He mentioned in his typical, casual demeanor, “Derek always forgives those who genuinely seek his forgiveness.”

                “I am not sure I deserve it.” Stiles shook his head in dismay. “There are things he does not know. That he could not possibly know. And I keep punishing him for them.”

                “Did you mean your vows?” the healer asked.

                Stiles hesitated. “Pardon me?”

                Deaton turned his steady, intent gaze upon him. “Did you mean ‘until the end of your life?’”

                Stiles’ own reply startled him, coming forth before he even contemplated the question. “Yes,” he answered, his heart pounding so hard he could feel the beating at the back of his throat.

                “Perhaps it is time to tell him.”

                Stiles combed his son’s feathery hair, releasing a slow breath. “Past time, I think.”

                “No time better than the present,” Deaton hinted, brows raised, a faint smile on his lips.

                “Yes, yes. You are right.” Stiles managed to escape the taunting tilt of the rocking chair even with both arms locked around Claud. “Thank you, Alan, for taking us in so late. You already do so much for us.”

                “Please, Stiles.” The emissary squeezed his shoulder, found Stiles’ eyes. “You are pack. This is what I do, the reason I am here.”

                Stiles nodded, lips pressing into a grateful smile.  

                “Go home, child. See your husband.”

* * *

                The walk to his den was short, but Stiles made the distance last. He could not dawdle much longer due to the cold, however, Claud wrapped inside Stiles’ coat. It was not unwillingness that stalled him but fear and a sense of sickening dread that always accompanied the topic into which he was about to delve. Even with his father, his friends, he only spoke of it in passing fragments, on rare occasions.

                He would be tearing open, digging into, a nasty wound tonight. Nevertheless, it seemed the only way to rid himself of the long-festering infection once and for all.   

                He pushed through the front door, trying not to dwell on the knowledge that Derek already heard his approach, smelled it. He found his husband at the table, head bowed, hands enveloping a cup of tea that had long cooled. Waiting.

                Stiles swallowed the rising embarrassment and guilt. Derek was the one who needed comfort and attention and reassurance. _For once_ , Stiles’ own feelings would come second.

                Before joining the table, he set Claud in his new crib, carved wood with high sides that the babe could not surmount. Another loan from the pack mothers. Stiles tucked the blankets around his son and traveled back to the kitchen, choosing the chair opposite the Alpha’s.  

                His husband’s face housed a sober, grim, wounded expression. At that moment, he looked more a wretched omega than an Alpha of a respected pack, raw and razed to the core as he was.

                “I was wrong,” Stiles began, voice wispy but clear. A cowardly urge tempted him, told him to avert his gaze, soften his voice, try to shy away from the pain he caused and retain a sense of innocence. He clenched his hands together until cramps threatened and anchored his eyes to the wolf’s face. He was guilty, and he owed it to his husband to be direct and available and culpable.   

                Derek’s fingers adjusted around the wooden cup. “I should never have—”

                “No.” Stiles interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. His arms quivered with the desire to reach out, touch Derek, convince him that none of the fault fell to him. His husband would melt under his hands, beneath his skin, and all would be forgiven. Derek was just that sort of man: loyal and understanding and generous with his loved ones. It would be a manipulation on Stiles’ part, a base play on sentimentality and affection, and Stiles could not do it to him, would not damage him any further tonight. He closed his eyes for a moment, lacing his own fingers together, and breathed. “No. Not this time. I am the only one to blame.”

                Eventually, Derek nodded, but it was more a gesture of acceptance than agreement.

                Stiles continued. “You did nothing to deserve such a scene from me. My words were malicious, my reaction unwarranted. I treated you like a criminal, rather than my husband and the stepfather of my child. I reproached you for transgressions done to me before we ever met.”       

                The Alpha finally lifted his head, their eyes connecting. His mouth curled into a weak smile. “I am glad you came home.”

                Stiles’ belly flopped with relief at those words. He was so undeserving of them, but gods, were they incredible to hear. “I am so sorry. For running away, for distancing myself. It is unfair and-and _juvenile_ for you to have to keep chasing me.”

                “I would never chase you, Stiles,” the wolf admitted, muted and grave. The barb was justified, but it did not sting any less. “The moment I did that, I would lose you.” Derek stared back into the abyss of his tea and added, “But I will always wait for you to come back.”

                “Oh, Derek,” he choked, his throat strained and eyes burning. He massaged his fingertips deep into the tense, aching muscle of his forehead. “Can you forgive me?”  

                Not even a breath later, his husband replied, “My forgiveness is yours.”  

                Stiles’ mouth parted in puzzlement. It was too simple. Alan predicted this happening, but it was still far too easy. He had not groveled or entreated or even asked a second time. He had not _earned_ it. Stiles protested, “Derek, you—”

                “I love you, Stiles.” The Alpha sighed, helpless, his mouth crumpling into a bittersweet smile. “It is yours.” Stiles’ eyes widened of their own accord, his breaths stopping altogether. Derek chuckled at the response. “I do not need you to say anything in return. In fact, tonight, I implore you not to.”

                The wolf rose from the table, perhaps having suffered enough for one night. But, no. The Alpha only journeyed to the fireplace to refresh his own cold tea and pour a cup for Stiles.  

                 “Thank you.” Stiles cleared his throat, wetted his mouth with the hot brew. “Do you remember the first walk we took through the forest together? The week before we married? You told me my pain would never bore you.” A fleeting smile graced his lips at the memory, Derek gallant as ever.  

                “I do.” The wolf’s forehead creased with confusion, curiosity.

                “Are you still interested in my tale of woe?” Stiles wondered.  

                “I am.”

                Stiles did not expect any more tears from himself. He had cried oceans that first year, and now, only an immense, weighty sadness remained. “I thought I was barren for a time, when I was eighteen. I was newly married, and it took almost a year for us to conceive.”

                “You were twenty when you birthed Claud,” Derek commented, tiptoeing around an unspoken question.

                Stiles took another sip of tea. “I was,” he agreed. “My first child—I lost it, in the midst of pregnancy. One night, terrible pains wracked my belly.” The hand in his lap drifted to his lower abdomen, palming the flat emptiness. “Melissa came, but I knew it was already over. Too much blood puddling on the sheets, all that was left of my baby, and too many months before its time.”   

                Derek’s fingers stroked his wrist, having crept across the table without Stiles’ notice, making him jerk in shock. The tea sloshed over the rim of his cup, spilling onto their skin and the tabletop. Neither of them made a move to clean the mess. Stiles turned his arm just enough so that their palms slid together, fingers teasing.

                “It was not your fault,” his husband murmured. “You did everything you could.” He spoke with such sincerity, such conviction.

                “I know that now. I was young and healthy and careful. Sometimes, it just…happens.” Stiles thumbed over the bones in the back of Derek’s hand, eyes glazed and faraway. He disentangled himself from those dark memories—stumbling to the river to wash away the blood, still sore and tender inside, his Alpha gathering the clothes he shed on the bank—and returned to the present. “But when it happened, it was all too fresh, too crippling. We were inconsolable, full of grief. After a few months, he wanted to try again.”

                “You were not ready,” Derek finished, his voice calm and careful, not wanting to sound presumptuous.

                Stiles lips flattened into a humorless smile. He nodded. “He was patient and caring with me. He gave me space and time and hoped that with enough of each, I would reconsider. With each rejection, he became more wounded, grew more resigned.

                “We did try once, during that dismal half-year. I felt so sick afterwards that I stayed with Scott for days. I could not bear to have my husband touch me.” Stiles worried his bottom lip between his teeth, thoughtful. “I think it broke him. He assumed I would never give him children, either because I could not or would not. He wanted a family of his own. He wanted his pack to grow.”

                Derek scowled, shaking his head. The Alpha latched onto his eyes with an unfaltering stare, unavoidable, irrefutable. “He should have done better,” the wolf stated, as if it were that uncomplicated. Perhaps for a man like Derek, it was.

                Stiles hummed in acknowledgement. “We did not love each other. He never gave me his bite. He _wanted_ our marriage to work, but he could not promise he would stay with me. And rather than lie, than _pretend_ , and cheapen the act…” He shrugged. It turned out to be a kindness, in truth, not having to bear his first Alpha’s mating mark after he left. A constant reminder of loss and betrayal.

                “It was the first of many signs that proved the uncertainty, the instability, of our arrangement. It was a tenuous alliance, binding only as long as both sides fulfilled their promises. With less than ten wolves in his pack, the Alpha needed the village’s numbers. My people needed the wolves’ protection and rapport with their own kind. The pack was civil and cooperative, but it made no effort to immerse itself in village life. There was always a tension between us, a sense that the moment the agreement was violated, the wolves would leave, looking for a better opportunity without a second thought of my village.”  

                “Is that what happened?” Derek asked.

                “Yes.” Bitterness bled into Stiles’ tone. “Only, _they_ were the ones who violated the agreement. They left in the middle of the night, without an explanation or even a goodbye. They left us vulnerable. The betas were unsatisfied, yes, but the pack follows the command of its Alpha. He disappeared because I did not give him a child.”

                “You _did_ give him a child,” his husband gently reminded. When Stiles failed to respond, Derek questioned, “Your last encounter. How soon before his departure did it occur?”

                “Two weeks.”

                Stiles recognized the moment his husband arrived at the conclusion, a seriousness overtaking his eyes and his expression. “He does not know about Claud.”  

                “He left no word of where he was going. Neither one of us ever thought one night would amount to anything, not with our past experience. Even if I had known where he was…” Stiles cut his sentence short, shaking his head, donning a false smile. “If he had stayed, he would have known. He chose to break his vows, destroy my trust, abandon my village. It is best that he stays gone.”

                He sighed, trapping Derek’s hand between both of his own, pressing it to his cheek. “Say it again. Please.”

                The wolf knew what he meant at once, without need of any clarification. “I love you.” Stiles’ first Alpha never spoke those words to him. Stiles was thankful he never did. It should be Derek’s ring on his finger, Derek’s bite on his neck, Derek’s love in his heart. First and only, Derek’s.

                “Are you sure?” Stiles raised a critical brow.

                Derek laughed, a genuine, amused laugh. The last sound Stiles expected to hear tonight. “Yes. I am fairly certain on the matter.”

                Stiles beamed. “Lunatic.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains description of miscarriage. It's not graphic, but it may be troubling to some readers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! This note is not relevant to the story, so feel free to skip it if you don't feel like being drawn into my shameless speechifying. 
> 
> Without being too melodramatic or pitiful, I'll just say the last few weeks have been pretty suckworthy, and my only relief has been stopping here to read and write fic. I'm pretty damn grateful for all you authors that inspire and entertain me and for all you readers that keep me inspired along the way. You are appreciated; your continual passion and support and encouragement are appreciated. Thank you. 
> 
> Ugh, there. Done. I promise. Oh, btw, here's an update ☺

**DEREK**

               Winter brought icy winds and frigid nights but little snow. At its most extreme, the dry, brittle season left the soil hard-packed and impenetrably frozen and turned the trees into scraggy, bizarre icicles. The weather, thus far, had remained mild, the ground still moist and soft underfoot even in the year’s final month.

               He circled the border of the pack territory each morning before sunrise, before his betas and the pups left the safety of their dens. Peter, Satomi, and usually, Malia, took a quadrant alongside him. Paired with Deaton’s druidic warning runes carved into the trees and rocks, connecting in a rough loop around their stretch of forest, the likelihood of someone creeping unknown onto their land was low. A purely defensive measure, however. The symbols only acted as a mystical tripwire, alerting Alan to the presence of intruders and giving the pack little but precious time to prepare for an attack. Two howls, short and low-pitched, meant encroaching strangers; three signaled imminent danger or confrontation.

               Derek was especially grateful for his emissary’s supernatural safeguards now. With his strongest betas aiding the village, he had resorted to checking the boundaries alone. It was less effective and took four times as long, all the while letting foreign scent trails degrade or invaders slip into pack territory from an opposite direction without ever encountering the Alpha. Yet, he was not overly concerned. Threats rarely wandered in during the allotted hours of the day when one looked for them. Any foe or raider with a jot of sense would come in the night, not near dawn, and then Alan’s efforts would bear fruit.

               Meanwhile, the remaining adults better served the pack guarding the infants and young children and women expecting. Two of his betas were pregnant, both inseparable from their mates. One had a cub already, but the other, Valerie, was carrying her first child. With her pup due in less than a month, she was constantly doted upon by her mate or attended by the pack mothers.   

               Lately, the warmthlessness of the predawn hours had compelled Derek to stroll the limits fully shifted, slipping back into his skin only once he returned to his den. If needed, he rebuilt the fire, naked and silent, tossing adoring glances towards the bed every time he sensed a shift in the cocoon of blankets.

               In his absence, his mate sought warmth, rolling into the dent left behind by Derek’s body, the covers pulled up to his ears. Before rejoining Stiles, he checked the baby, tucking unruly limbs beneath their blanket, and stepped back into his discarded shorts. The animal inside felt a natural comfort with his own nakedness, and nearing the full moon, preferred to avoid the hindrance of clothes altogether. It was his human half that reined in those primal urges and reminded him of modesty and public decency. Before his marriage, he maintained private quarters and slept nude every night. Previous mornings such as this one, with the cold breeze chilling even the flesh beneath his fur, Derek would return from a run and slide bare between his sheets, their embrace cool and crisp and refreshing. It never took long for the radiating heat from his skin to warm his blankets and pillows.  

               The sacrifice of those small pleasures was trivial. Derek might have compromised, but he gained far more than he lost. He crawled into the crumpled, bunched nest of bedding, saturated with heat and the scent of _mate_ , to find the most perfect gift concealed inside all of that wrapping.

               Stiles’ body unfurled, a subconscious response to his presence that quickened and tripped Derek’s heartbeat. His mate’s intimate musk was concentrated in the sheets, rubbed into the fabric day after day, only known to Derek through secondhand smell and taste. If he was not curled around Stiles on their sides, breathing in his hair and his skin, he slept on his belly, face pressed into the pillows that smelled of him and Stiles and them. His want for his mate never disappeared nor abated; it simmered beneath his flesh most days, a constant and comforting buzz in his blood. Occasionally, it rose to a boil and overflowed. The nights when his lust was unshakable, when desire choked him, he lay prone, his mate’s salty, sexed fragrance filling his nose, his mouth watering and threatening to slaver. In those moments, he felt more wolf than man, his hardness trapped between his hips and the mattress, unseen and ignored, as he gouged his pillow with dull, cramping fingers.

               His lecherous thoughts, dreams, fantasies were harmless within the confines of his own mind, but beyond it, forbidden. Stiles was neither ready nor willing, and perhaps, he never would be. Since their wedding night, Derek had considered the possibility more than once and knew he could live with it. Live happily with it, in fact. They shared pack and family, traded confidences and affection, and had a pup between them that needed rearing. He could be quite content if Stiles’ kisses never strayed from his cheek.

               As Derek lifted the covers and slipped beneath them, he caught a glimpse of worn, lightweight trousers, woolen socks, and an old nursing tunic. The human had been accumulating layers as the seasons progressed, more susceptible to the cold. The extra bulk of clothing did not detract from his loveliness in the least. He was still devastatingly beautiful to behold, pouty lips and disheveled hair and nubile body. Derek could warm him better than any garments, flesh against flesh as his wolf yearned to, but there was no way to frame such a request as casual or innocent. The glaring transparency of the proposition made his stomach twist and churn with shame.   

               An hour more of rest, before the sun dragged him back to wakefulness, was a tempting idea. But then Stiles responded to him, shuffling towards his heat and molding himself against Derek’s front, uttering drowsy, nonsensical grumbles, snuffling into his throat, never entirely waking. Derek was so rarely given the opportunity to look, and to look his fill without inhibition or detection.

               The light filtering through the windows was still grayish and fuzzy, but it lent enough illumination for an Alpha’s eyes. They kept the curtains around their bedroom window drawn at all times; the golden sunlight for Stiles, the silvery moonlight for Derek.

               He sometimes thought he understood Stiles best when he was asleep, unguarded, the secrets of his body, if not his mind, laid bare. He understood that even swaddled in bedclothes, Stiles’ belly was smooth and deflated, a gentle bowl framed by his narrow hips and his ribcage. He bore no stretch marks from his son. Either he did not carry heavily when with child or he had simply benefitted from the advantage of youth with Claud. He understood that Stiles’ chest was flat and hairless like other Carriers’, his nipples high and tight and pretty. He understood that his mate’s legs were lean from years of harvesting and striding through forests, his thighs soft and supple and welcoming to more than one husband. To look at him, one would never imagine he had conceived and birthed and nursed a child, had been marked and married and mated.

               He understood that Stiles appeared boyish but was not a boy. His daybreak musings always ended with the same conclusion, his chest sore and suffocating with love that threatened to crack his breastbone and his ribs: Stiles was extraordinary.    

* * *

               The leftover hours in the afternoon, wedged between lunch and supper, belonged to Claud. Three days ago, he had walked, rocking onto chubby, dimpled knees, rising onto wobbly legs.        

               Stiles’ call from across the den had been so breathless and abrupt that Derek nearly dropped the pot for their tea in alarm. He found his mate sitting on the floor, arms outstretched, eyes glittering with unshed tears as the child stumbled over to him.

               “ _Derek_.” The human’s voice had quivered with emotion, transforming the monotonous syllables so known to Derek into something new and wonderful. No one had ever spoken his name in that manner, with an undertone of pure gratitude that suggested his presence was a _blessing_. Perhaps Stiles had realized that their partnership meant not only splitting burdens but also sharing triumphs. “Look at our boy. Walking already.” Stiles sniffed and peppered Claud’s face with kisses until the son’s giggles echoed the father’s.

               _Our._

               His mate’s lingering stare and softening smile confirmed it had not been an accident or a mere instance of careless phrasing. Derek dropped next to him, pressed a kiss to his temple, and nuzzled the pup with pride and congratulations thick in his throat.

               They put a grate in front of the fireplace, left only the furniture and baskets of clothes on the floor, and set the tubs of water upon the bench near the den’s entrance. The door handle was too high for the child, but they bolted the lock each night before bed regardless.

               In their den, the boy staggered and tottered as he liked. He and Stiles would settle on the smooth floor, facing one another but separated by the width of the den, their backs leaning against opposite walls. Once Claud found his footing, Stiles faced him in Derek’s direction and sent the boy to him. Sometimes, the infant wandered off course, drawn by the seemingly random and inexplicable interests of one his age, only to be guided back to a safer path. Occasionally, he tripped and fell, Stiles wincing and biting his lip or fingernails every time but never moving, allowing the boy to clamber back to his feet on his own. The worst of the tumbles left the baby squalling, ruddy-cheeked and tears streaming, prompting one of them to gather the infant in his arms to kiss and cuddle away the hurt. More often than not, the pup made the journey back and forth without incident, crashing gracelessly into both of his parents’ embraces.

               At eleven months, Claud was already too clever and curious and perseverant by half. Derek could not imagine from whom such traits had originated.          

* * *

                With a pudgy hand tucked in one of each of their fists, Claud teetered between them, his feet adjusting to the uneven and unpredictable ground. The boy was neither accustomed to nor impressed with shoes, although the barrier of socks somewhat assuaged the inconvenience and deterred him from flinging them off at every turn.

               When they encountered a puddle or deep rut, they lifted the babe by his arms and swung him over the obstacle. Claud loved the brief weightlessness and the pendulous swing of his body, giving elated shrills as he dangled from their grip. Despite possessing a child’s vigor, the boy tired after a continuous stretch of walking, his endurance still developing, legs still strengthening. What the infant initially viewed as a wondrous, novel experience would turn into an exercise of tedious repetition and exertion that resulted in him plunking down wherever he was. It was a sure cue from Claud that he was ready to be carried the rest of the way or deserted but would not, in either case, move of his own accord.  

               Derek noticed the telltale, protesting signs on the short journey to Alan’s hut and scooped up the boy before he sat in a particularly messy patch of mud. The pup would be docile for Deaton, growing drowsy from lunch and playtime. He balanced Claud on his shoulders, and the child grabbed his ears and hair with merciless and uncaring little fingers. His mate snickered but rested a sympathetic hand on his lower back as they traveled.

               The relative warmth and light workload encouraged the pack to make the most of the remaining daylight. The winds calmed while the temperature climbed, the sun perched high in the pale, cloudless sky. Resettlement preparations that used to occupy the entire afternoon had been dwindling, and now, were all but finished. The pack had demonstrated diligence over the last few months, racing against the seasons so that when cold and darkness claimed the days, the bulk of the labor would be completed. Not only had they met those expectations; they had exceeded them. The only arrangements left to make were packing their own dens. The first wave of wolves had carried their most essential belongings upon their backs, the rest loaded onto the finished carts that were parked inside the skeletons of disassembled dens and sheltered by canvas. No beasts of burden would be required to transport the carts as the wolves were strong and numerous enough to pull them. Not to mention that the enslavement of animals was deemed an unsavory business by halfling creatures such as his kind.

               Instead of fleeing to their dry, enclosed dens and nurturing hearths after their chores, his packmates stayed outside, sharing food and company. The pups scampered and played while the adults congregated around small cookfires to chat and finish their meals. Even Alan, who usually cloistered himself inside his den to study or cultivate his medicinal stores, was awaiting them on his front step, whittling and enjoying the temperate weather.

               Freed from responsibility until supper, he left the den sites behind with his mate and headed into the thicker forest where they hunted and harvested and were afforded more privacy.    

               “Arm yourself,” Stiles called, mouth curling into a playful smile as he bent and unsheathed the dagger from his boot.

               Derek smirked. “As you command.” He flicked his claws from his fingertips but retained his human teeth. His fangs garbled his speech, which became tiresome as he tried to correct Stiles’ form or communicate in general. For most wolves, they were a secondary weapon next to claws. A fatal bite, whether intended towards prey or an enemy, required proximity and increased the risk of personal injury. Moreover, Stiles was not prey, not an enemy, and not a wolf. One prick of teeth from the Alpha and his sweet human mate would be changing the next full moon.

               Claws were not nearly as dangerous. They would have to gouge incredibly deep into the flesh to render a transformation in a human, and Derek would disembowel himself with his own hands before he ever landed more than a scratch upon his mate.

               He challenged Stiles’ defensive and offensive skills, giving the human an opportunity to practice both his blocks and attacks. But Derek never let a blow hit its mark with intent. The thought of hurting Stiles, especially in a physical manner, was counterintuitive and nauseating; it made his wolf pace and whine in distress. Yet, he worried that soft treatment might leave his mate unprepared in a true fight. It was a difficult balance to maintain with his heart clouding his mind, and he hoped the mix of fighters in the village—humans, betas, another Alpha—would round out Stiles’ training.

               They circled one another, Stiles’ arms raised and protective, his own hanging by his sides with patience, matching each other step for step. His mate slashed with his dagger, an oblique cut that split the air where Derek’s torso used to be. He dodged the attack and used the spare moments it took Stiles to lift his blade to charge forward, knock his arm aside, and shove the human back by the chest. Not hard enough to bruise, just to make him lose his balance, force him to recover and reposition.

               Derek initiated the next strike, punching straight for Stiles’ nose. His mate shifted his weight from foot to foot, a manic gleam in his eyes, teeth bared in a grin. He could smell Stiles’ pungent sweat, beading from the sun’s heat, the human’s wool coat, and the exertion of their training, but his scent was also laced with excitement. Stiles enjoyed their sparring, invigorated either by the act itself, his partner, or an unspecified proportion of both. He ducked at the last moment and whirled to the side, Derek’s fist colliding with the tree trunk, bark cracking and exploding, showering the ground with splinters.

               Stiles snorted at the obvious, gloating display of Alpha strength, refusing to be intimidated or impressed as he shook woodchips off of his boots. Derek loved him more for it.   

               They fought, winning and losing by turns. His own assaults were stronger and quicker, hitting their target with regularity. Derek pulled his punches and recalled his claws so that Stiles’ body was only met with soft blows and blunt, skidding fingertips. The contact alone was enough to teach a lesson, each touch representing what would have been an injury or a deathblow in a real fight. Still, Stiles managed to land a couple strikes, offering Derek the same courtesy he was given, his dagger halting a hair’s breadth from Derek’s skin before it sliced or punctured. The human did not tame his own punches, however, and the rare successes left Derek with a keen appreciation for Stiles’ sharp knuckles.

               Stiles’ defensive strategy surpassed his own. Physical inferiority had not deterred the human but motivated him, inspiring resourcefulness and cunning and spontaneity to level their odds. Stiles could be quite difficult to pin down for an attack, utilizing his surroundings in ways Derek never considered. His mate was not limited by the predatory arrogance that compelled Derek to strike obviously and deflect directly, to rely on power rather than technique to make him the victor of a fight.

               The air was still cool enough to make their skin tacky and clammy with perspiration, Stiles’ nose and cheeks and ears tinged pink. Derek averted his mate’s driving dagger with ease, puzzled by the human’s chuckle that immediately followed. He realized his mistake when the block exposed his belly, Stiles managing a quick jab to his ribs with his bare left hand. The discomfort faded, but a quiet satisfaction lingered; Derek had been urging Stiles to strengthen his weaker arm.

               With a grunt, he seized Stiles’ wrists and plowed ahead, leaving the human no choice but to scramble backwards or trip. He walked his mate into a sturdy trunk, girthy enough to pin Stiles’ back and arms against its bark. Without free movement of his wrist, Stiles’ dagger was all but useless in his hand.  

               The space between them was hot and loud with their pants, products of exercise and exhilaration. Stiles’ eyes were wide and wild, his heart pattering, scent potent and heady even beneath layers of clothes.

               “Too much?” Derek breathed. His mate was splayed before him, wrists secured on either side of his head, legs forced apart by Derek’s knees so that the human was almost sitting on his thighs, held up only by the toes of his boots digging into the dirt. Unbalanced, with his limbs spread in every direction, Stiles had no leverage to lash out or kick him. A frantic pulse beat underneath Derek’s thumbs, where his fingers dug into the tender flesh of Stiles’ wrists. His own leapt and drummed against his skin in response, seeking connection and synchronicity, desperate for him and Stiles to throb in unison, their flesh and blood and breath indistinguishable. Derek swallowed against a shiver, his eyelids fluttering with temptation.

               Stiles shook his head, voice rough. “You hold back with me too much already.”

               Derek released him, and his mate slumped ever so fluidly back onto his feet, his clothes rumpled, back still faintly arched. “Ready?”

               The human spun the dagger in his hand until the blade faced the ground. His teeth glistened as he grinned.  

               Derek swung, the human crouching to dodge the blow, somehow generating enough force and speed through a pivot-and-swivel motion to sweep Derek’s legs out from underneath himself. The ground rose to meet him, hard and ungiving, but not before his limbs flailed and his boot struck something solid but meaty.

               He heard a grunt of pain that did not belong to him, followed by a weight slamming across his thighs and stomach. After smacking his head off the ground, his vision had checkered to black, and shapes and colors were only beginning to filter back into his sight. Once he regained his faculties, certain details became immediately and sequentially clear to him.   

               Firstly, the solid, meaty something had been Stiles’ head, his mouth bleeding sluggishly and painting the seam of his lips a lurid red. Secondly, the mass that had expelled the breath from his lungs and squashed his internal organs was, in fact, his mate, who had presumably taken his own spill after being kicked in the face. Understandable. And thirdly, Stiles’ dagger was buried in his left thigh up to the hilt.

               Derek lifted himself onto his elbows, Stiles mimicking his movements. His mate groaned, cheeks aglow from more than just the chill now, and muttered, “That worked out nicely.” His smile veered towards a grimace, blood outlining his gums, staining his teeth red. He turned his head and spit.

               Derek huffed with amusement, tracing Stiles’ mouth gently. “How is that lip?”

               The human’s eyes narrowed in contemplation, his tongue moving in furtive paths behind his closed lips. “I still have all my teeth,” he teased with a wry smirk. “I will live. And you? Derek, it was all my fault. I should have—”

               “Fine. I am perfectly fine,” he interrupted, cupping his mate’s cheek, his breaths hissing softly through his teeth as he tried to endure the searing pain in his leg without alarming Stiles, “except for one minor affliction.” He cocked his head towards his thigh, and Stiles followed the line of his eyesight.

               “ _Gods above,_ ” Stiles gasped, eyes rounding to an impossible size. “Hold on, Derek. I am so sorry. I will fix it.” His mate petted his beard, uttering unintelligible and rapid assurances about Derek’s health.

               “Stiles,” he groaned, unable to contain his airy, suffering chuckle. “I will heal. But only if the dagger is actually removed.”

               “Yes, of course. Quite. I can do it. Absolutely. I am _deplorable_.” His hands flittered anxiously, hovering above the knife’s handle. Stiles’ eyes darted back to him. “Brace yourself.”

               With a terse nod in reply, Derek’s hands twisted in the dirt and grass and leaves beside him. Stiles held his breath, too, cringing and frowning as he eased the dagger out of the muscle with a clean, smooth pull. A thick spurt of blood gushed from the hole in his thigh but slowed to a trickle after a few moments, the skin knitting back together. Stiles observed, transfixed, prying open the tear in his trousers to better watch the puncture close. Only when it disappeared altogether, leaving behind a gory smear and trail, did he exhale and let his head hang.

               “You did threaten to kill me once,” Derek noted with mock seriousness. “Now, this appeared to be an accident, but—”

               His mate finally erupted in a wounded, helpless laugh, hiding his face in Derek’s shirt with an embarrassed moan. “Do not tease about that. I am horrible and wretched. Can you sit up?” Stiles’ face was close, the corners of his eyes and lips crinkled with concern. “Here, let me move. I doubt my weight is lessening your pain.”

               “I do not mind it,” he objected quietly.

               Stiles’ gaze turned thoughtful. He murmured, “I would take your pain if I could.”

               “The pain is gone.” All that was left was a phantom sting, burning away with each passing moment. His healing happened so fast it often got ahead of his mind and body, such that he experienced flares of sensation even after a wound had vanished. Typically, the worse the injury, the greater the delay.

               “Then let me apologize for ever causing it.” The sun caught Stiles’ eyes, and they flashed like copper.

               Before he could determine Stiles’ intentions, his mate leaned down and pressed their lips together. For the second time in a matter of minutes, the human stole his breath, rendering him stunned and incapable of any movement, let alone reciprocation. Until Stiles uttered a soft, questioning noise and opened his mouth.

               He tasted Stiles’ cut lip, a rich, metallic tang coating his tongue; the wound had reopened with their kiss. It was strange that he only knew Stiles’ flavor tainted with blood or honey, never by itself.

               His hands covered the small of Stiles’ back and the back of one thigh, his mate’s body firm above him. Derek’s muscles coiled tight and tense with the desire to squeeze and grind and mash them together until their bones creaked. All the more reason to keep his touches light, ghostly. Neither of them was ready to confront the intensity of his need.

               Stiles’ arousal crept into his senses like vines snaking through the underbrush, subtle but invasive. _Per_ vasive. The odor was sultry and savory, even obscured by films of sweat and dirt and blood. 

               Their mouths broke apart, and Derek released a controlled breath, relaxing incrementally, one muscle group at a time. “I did hit my head. Perhaps this is a hallucination. I am unconscious, and this is nothing more than a consequence of my brain rattling too hard against the cage of my skull.”

               Stiles scoffed. “Not a very extravagant fantasy, is it?” His mate dipped to kiss him again, sighing when Derek licked the rest of the blood from his lips. Derek’s hands clenched into fists and loosened, twitching and flattening back over Stiles’ body. “This reminds me of our wedding day,” the human whispered with a gentle, secret smile. “The taste of blood in our mouths.” 


End file.
